


A kink in the armour

by waitingtobedistributed



Series: Hidden flowers [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, BDSM, Bisexual Sherlock, Bondage, Dubious Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Failure to Communicate, Light Impact Play, Lingerie, Multi, Non-Consensual Elements, PWP, Roleplay, Sherlolly - Freeform, Switch Sherlock, Threesome - F/M/M, Wank!Lock, drop, mollock, sherlolly smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-30
Updated: 2018-01-20
Packaged: 2018-07-19 07:25:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 30,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7351612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waitingtobedistributed/pseuds/waitingtobedistributed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He craved exactly what other men did. But the focus of his cravings had narrowed over the years to just one point.</p>
<p>Molly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> I don't have a beta and I own nothing.
> 
> Unapologetic porn.

 

It starts innocently enough.

Molly, visiting an old friend who’s moved to Manchester, is gone for three days. Sherlock, avoiding his brother, has decided that Molly’s Molly-free flat is the perfect place to lie on a couch, stare at the ceiling, and not be disturbed by idiots.

Things are _still_ decidedly innocent when he can’t find his pyjamas in Molly’s airing cupboard and instead chooses to ransack her bedroom drawers in search of suitable lying-on-a-couch-staring-at-the-ceiling attire.

Having decanted the contents of the first drawer and begun on the second he stops. By accident (purely, scouts honour) Sherlock has found his way into Molly's underwear drawer. For a brief moment he considers being a gentleman, closing the drawer and moving on to the next one.

But Sherlock Holmes is not a man who respects personal boundaries. Particularly when he’s spent years fantasising about what exactly Molly has kept hidden under those hideous, oversized, matronly cardigans that she insists on wearing.

At first, the under garments are all fairly standard, if a little unexpected.

Expensive, indulgent, sexy - Molly’s knickers, bras, stockings and corsets are removed and examined one by one. Sherlock runs his fingers across the luxurious lingerie imagining them on her, imagining the heat of her skin just beneath the silk and lace. His prick is already half hard by the time he’s found her more racy collection.

Tucked away at the back - clearly not often used, but reserved for special occasions - are black translucent silk, lace edged knickers, with a seam of red ribbon running almost all the way from the front to the back, the ends of which are tied off with a neat bow exactly where her clit would be. They’re beautifully cut to sit low on her hip, and would show off her firm backside to perfection.

His heartbeat getting faster and faster, a thin sheen of sweat on his brow, Sherlock pulls at the ribbon with shaking fingers. It comes free from the knickers leaving the crotch entirely and enticingly open.

Sherlock closes his eyes, and involuntarily lets his hand fall to the front of his trousers, where he’s now fully hard, to touch himself.

It has never been that Sherlock isn’t a sexual being: There was Oliver at university, who taught him how to deep throat a very large cock, and who had very pleasurably buggered Sherlock senseless for an entire semester. Then Violet Hunter, who, during a case, had shown him the pleasures that small, perfect breasts under his palm could give – whose thin lips stretched around his cock had fuelled his masturbatory fantasies for years. And Irene Adler who had brought him to his knees, whipping him thoroughly before fucking him _equally_ thoroughly, forcing him into blissful submission by sheer force of will.

No, he craved exactly what other men did. But the focus of his cravings had narrowed over the years to just one point.

Molly.

Her beautiful breasts, her doleful eyes, her long hair, her harsh slaps to his face, are the stuff of almost nightly discomfort.

It started years ago, when he returned to London. Sleeping over in Molly’s spare room eventually became sleeping over in Molly’s bedroom. They’ve kissed, sometimes. Comfort turns to closeness and closeness turns to intimacy, and the kissing has been..sensual at times. He’s always managed to stop things before they go too far, no matter how frustrating it’s been, but picturing Molly in these gauzy, lacy knickers, he’s not sure that he wants to fight it anymore.

He’s an easy switch, and he suspects she is too: If she would indulge him, the permutations and combinations of their couplings would be the stuff dreams are made of. Sherlock can’t help but wonder what it would be like to give in, indulge himself just once, so he lets the scenes play out in his mind: He could take her from behind, Molly on her knees. He could sit back as she takes him down her throat her arms tied behind her back, while he slowly fucks her mouth. Maybe he could tie her to the bed and spank her arse until she’s pink and glowing, then fuck her tender hole. Or he could kneel before her, and lap at her cunt as she pulls on his hair.

That thought sends his lust into overdrive. With one hand braced against the bedroom wall he unbuttons his trousers and lowers the zip. In his mind, Molly is standing behind him, nude except for the pair of crotch less knickers that are now wrapped around his fist. He can almost feel her bare breasts, nipples hard, pressed against his back. He imagines her gentle fingers wrapped around him instead of his own.

In earnest he begins to pump: What he sees now in his mind’s eye is Molly splayed on her bed, legs spread in invitation as he kneels between them untying the red ribbon so that he can penetrate her.

Behind his closed lids the scene changes. Now on _his_ back, Molly is riding him, and he can feel the lace on either side of the open crotch rub tantalisingly against his skin. Her perky little breasts bounce as he imagines her fucking him. He is big, but she takes it so well and she whimpers for _more, more, more_ , every time he thrusts up into her..

His grip on his cock tightens and his pace quickens. Sharp arousal courses through his veins. Sherlock feels his balls tighten, and pleasure twists and coils in his belly.

With his trousers around his knees and roughly tugging his cock, Sherlock comes, spilling over his hand and into Molly’s knickers. Dropping to the floor, he struggles to get his breath back as Mr Snuggles, Molly’s teddy bear, watches judgmentally from the bedside table.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~

 

For the next three nights, Sherlock sleeps on Molly’s bed after wanking himself into blissful oblivion to the movie reel that plays in his head of Molly in her underwear collection doing deliciously perverted things to him.

On the fourth day, he launders the sheets and her violated knickers, and goes back to Baker Street.

He does his best not to ask himself why it’s so hard to leave.


	2. Two

 

It’s two days later when he bounds up the stairs at Baker Street, to find Molly sitting in his fireside chair.

Just the lamp by the window is lit, and in contrast to the bright hallway the room is dim. When his eyes adjust and he sees Molly clearly, his mouth goes dry and his breathing hitches.

She’s wearing his blue silk dressing gown. It has slipped from her left shoulder to expose one breast covered in a black, translucent silk fabric: there’s a red satin bow tied over her nipple holding closed the edges of the cup that has been split vertically. Her creamy, soft skin is visible where the bow isn’t pulled together quite tightly enough.

He’s transfixed.

“You never did find the bra that matched my knickers, did you?” Molly unfolds her bare legs from beneath herself and lets the dressing gown fall open to reveal that she is nude other than the set of matching lingerie.

“I-” he begins without much thought of what else he’s going to say.

“Don’t bother denying it,” she smiles, “I have the whole thing on video.”

_Fuck_. “But there aren’t any surveillance cameras, I’ve checked..?”

“Nanny cam.” Molly states plainly, “When you’ve dated as many psychopaths as I have, you get to be a little cautious.”

Mr Snuggles, Sherlock realises. _The traitor._

“I watched you,” her hand drifts between her legs pulling the bow that opens the crotch loose, “night after night, as you stroked your cock with my knickers in your hands and my name on your lips when you came.”

Settling her legs over the arms of the leather chair, spreading herself open, Molly slips a finger inside and sweetly moans, “Is this how you imagined it?”

Unable to move or breathe, his trousers suddenly too tight, he watches as she fucks herself on her fingers. Her face and chest flushed, Molly unties the bows on her breasts to pinch and roll her nipples. She is everything he imagined, magnificent in her brashness.

“Is this what you want, Sherlock?”

His mind racing, he thinks about the years of self-protective abstinence, he thinks about his solemn vow to remain faithful to the work, he thinks about his and Molly’s friendship.

And then he thinks he’s waited long enough.

“Yes,” he swallows, “I want to use you. To fuck you.” His voice is a low rumble and heat flares across his high cheekbones. “I want you on all fours, and I want to rut into you like a wild animal.”

Molly’s eyes widen and a feral grin spreads across her face.

“Not before I have my turn. I should just fuck myself, tie you up and make you watch. Leave you hard,” Molly gasps between heavy breaths. “But I’m merciful,” she smiles, “I’m going to use your mouth and if you do a good enough job I’ll let you fuck me. You’ve been naughty, Sherlock,” she tuts and coos sweetly, “and you know what happens when little boys misbehave.”

It barely takes an instant to decide, he does deserve it after all so he’ll capitulate and accept his punishment. _This time_. The other games he has in mind can wait.

It’s hardly a punishment when it’s exactly what he wants. He’s dreamt of that sweet little pussy for so long that he can’t wait to put his mouth on it. So Sherlock plays along and nods eagerly, following her lead, all the while hot lava courses through his bones.

“There’s my good boy.” The sweet smile has slipped from her lips and she looks at him darkly, her eyes full of mischief, “Strip. Now. Let me look at you.”

His coat is slipped off, followed by his scarf and jacket. By the time he reaches her chair, his shirt has already been discarded and his trousers opened. He pulls Molly to her feet and pressing his lips against hers, greedily sliding his tongue into her mouth. Slipping his hand under the dressing gown, he palms her silk covered arse and pulls the gown from her shoulders. His cock is rapidly filling out, and Molly pushes beneath his boxer shorts to wrap her hand around him and stroke.

“Trousers down, then on your knees in front of me, Sherlock,” she manages to pant between kisses from her bitten and rosy lips. “But first, put these on.”

From the pocket of his dressing gown, Molly produces a purple satin thong, the one he’d gotten himself off with on the second night of her stay in Manchester.

“ _Molly?”_ He says, breathy and excited.

“Did you think I wouldn’t punish you? Oh Sherlock,” her voice is almost sympathetic but completely self-satisfied, “you liked them well enough just a few nights ago, let’s see how you feel about them now, shall we?”

Quivering with anticipation, Sherlock lets his trousers and boxers fall to his ankles. He frees himself from the last of his clothes and takes them from her.

Her intention is not to humiliate him, he knows, although that thought is intriguing. No, this is about trust. It’s something they’ve always shared, and he’ll prove it to her again by giving her exactly what she asks for and put them on.

The thong is tight, not a good fit. His balls are constricted, and his erection is poking out several inches above the waist band. Pre cum is making it wet, and the thong itself is catching uncomfortably between his cheeks.

Yet the tightness is oddly pleasant and the friction against his anus is good. He’s always liked a little discomfort with sex, it heightens the pleasure of release, and he begins to wonder just how far Molly would let him take things with her. Does she have the same proclivities for bondage, for power dynamics and experimentation as he does?

It certainly looks that way to him now.

Nothing has ever accidentally happened to Sherlock, so the toy box under his bed contains items for use in the eventuality – inevitability - that he gave into his urges for Molly. He thinks about her pretty mouth stretched around a gag, moaning for him while he fucks her. He thinks about the soft leather cuffs he’s had made specially for her tiny wrist, ones that would protect her hands from damage were their play to get a little rough.

The thoughts cause his cock to twitch and the barely there lace that holds the thong together begins to give way.

“Kneel,” Molly instructs, retaking her seat. Her chest is flushed, pupils dilated,  

Sherlock obediently sinks to the floor, presenting himself for her use, his mouth watering. There’s no need for her to tell him what to do next. He bites his lip and drops his gaze.

The first taste of her cunt is heaven. Molly is wet and ready for him, and there’s a beautifully wanton intake of breath when he flattens his tongue to lick. She arches into his mouth and her fingers find their way into his hair, her legs resting on his shoulders, ankles locked around his neck.

It occurs to Sherlock that he has two free hands: with his right, he pushes two fingers inside her, and with his left he reaches for her bared nipple and pinches hard, causing her to buck and bear down on his hand and mouth.

Sucking her clit between his lips, he circles it with his tongue, flicking and licking, quickening the pace in time with his pumping fingers as her moans become more and more lurid. Sherlock snakes his hand between his legs and squeezes his prick in time with the tongue that fucks her.

He both hears and feels her come. She screams his name, her cunt clenching on his fingers, pulling on the fistful of hair that’s in her hand.

Sherlock gives her just a moment to recover before he pulls her to the floor and rips the already frayed thong from around his waist. Kneeling behind her, with one hand he fondles her breast, twists her nipple, and with the other he gropes her arse, slaps it once, and Molly’s responding moan is lewd and desperate.

His thumb presses firmly against the cleft of her backside until it finds the slick wetness of her cunt and sinks in, while her thighs tremble with arousal.

On the rug, in front of the fireplace Sherlock gently pushes her shoulders to the floor, and grips her hip - her translucent black silk covered arse is in the air, ready for him to take. The fingers that had toyed with her tits graze down her belly, lower and lower until they find her clit through the open crotch of her soaking knickers. The sigh that Molly exhales is soft and satisfied.

Flushed pink, she looks almost edible. Molly moans pliantly beneath him, like the sweet little plaything that he knew she would be, begging to be defiled and debased, “Please Sherlock, I need it.”

He eases the silk that frames her pussy aside, pushing the fat head of his swollen cock in to her body, beginning to thrust, pistoning in and out.

Slow at first, it becomes frantic, fuelled as it is by his lust for her willing body and Molly’s obvious enjoyment of being fucked hard. When he’s as deep as he can go, Sherlock leans over her and kisses her back. He’s rewarded with a moaned _‘yes,’_ as she pushes back onto his shaft.

His breathing is harsh and erratic, he feels dizzy so he focuses his whole mind on his cock and the woman wrapped around it.

He is close: what he wants is to paint her skin with his cum, but he’s so far gone that he couldn’t pull now out even if there was a gun pointed at his head.

Sherlock does his best to make it good for her. His fingers work her clit and his thumb teases her hole as he rocks into her, but it’s only when her hand joins his between her legs does she come, pulsing convulsively around him. He fucks her through it but it’s too much after wanting this for so long, that his orgasm overtakes him too. Sherlock comes with such force that he collapses onto her and they both fall to the floor.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~

 

They sleep in front of the fire with a blanket wrapped around them. When they wake Sherlock takes her to his bedroom and fucks her again.

The whole night passes that way: fuck, sleep, fuck..

By morning the urgency has passed, and they lie in each other’s arms. They barely kissed last night, but now that’s all he wants, to feel her breath in his mouth, press his skin to hers. It’s strange, he thinks, he’s never felt this..this..tenderness for another lover. The looks and kisses they’re sharing are long and warm, when she smiles back at him, he feels such _fondness_ for her, so he holds her hand and kisses her fingers.  It’s excruciating and wonderful.

Sherlock runs his forefinger along the soft planes of her beautiful face, and his lover hums contentedly.

Having Molly in his arms is every bit as thrilling as having his cock buried deep inside her, rutting into her sweet little body. Last night she was a wanton sex goddess, and this morning Molly has a delicate beauty, almost innocent, that makes his heart ache in a way he’s never experienced before.

Before he has time to wonder what that might mean, Molly is kissing him again and suggesting a wonderful idea.

They won’t need Mr Snuggles this time though: Sherlock has his own recording equipment.

 

 


	3. Games

Molly feels more than hears it when he enters her bedroom, well, her spare bedroom, they’ve agreed they need the extra space: the bondage table and whipping bench they were both so keen to try would have clashed with the florals in her master suite anyway.

It’s a sixth sense, of sorts. The soft hairs at the nape of her neck stand on end, there’s a gentle prickling all over her skin, her nipples harden and her cunt becomes wet. She feels the heat of his body, standing just inches behind her own, can smell his need and his desire for her mixed with his aftershave and natural scent.

Momentarily, she’s lost in him.

Naked but for the blindfold and leather chastity belt she wears, her wrists, fastened together, are suspended by a bar and chains from a hook in the ceiling. With her arms stretched this way, her breasts are pushed forward, more prominent, it gives him easier access. To touch. To torment.

Sherlock first’s caress is a hand on each of her delicately rounded hips, feather light but deliberate. Molly’s surprised gasp elicits a dark, low laugh from him and gooseflesh rises on her skin. A single bead of sweat traces the path of her spine.

“A little on edge, are we?” She can hear the self-satisfied smirk that twists the corners of his lips in his voice, can feel his eyes raking over her nude form. Her whole body is a raw nerve, and he knows it. It’s been an hour since he tied her up, maybe more, impossible to tell in the darkened silence. Every second that’s passed has made feel her more and more like her entire body is composed of want, need: the tension of waiting for him to touch her has made her skin, hair, fingernails, _her_ _everything,_ into an erogenous zone.

Molly writhes in her bonds as his palms, flat, smooth, softly soothe upward along her sides, stopping a hair’s breadth from the swell of her breasts. She pictures his storm-cloud coloured eyes gone dark, as he watches her body respond to his touch. Her hands, held high above her head, grasp the chain that holds them in an attempt to steady her now trembling body.

When he fondles her breasts, teases her taut nipples, Molly’s head falls back against his shoulder with a relieved sigh, and she feels his hard cock rub against the small of her back, her spine tingling from the eroticism of his power over her. To be subject to his will, his subjugation, is so deeply arousing for her. One hand falls from her breast and she feels him wrap it around his stiff prick and begin to masturbate, the leaking head grazing her backside with each stroke, so she pushes back against him.

A tumble of curls brush the side of her face when Sherlock bends to whisper in her ear, “That’s my good girl.” His lips are hot on her throat, his teeth blunt as he rakes them over her staccato pulse. Molly shudders and pants softly.

She _aches_ for him. Bastard that he is, he’s had her locked into the damn chastity device for 19 days and 22 hours now. Though the belt is more symbolic than functional, she’s honoured his instruction, and her promise, not to come. It’s taken off only when he allows, which – other than for hygiene reasons – is when he opens her arse and fucks her; hands tied behind her back so that she can’t touch _there_ , shoulders to the mattress and arse in the air so that there’s not even the possibility of stimulation from friction against the sheets, he’s reminded her in less than subtle ways who owns her cunt and whose pleasure it’s made for. But the flogging that he gave her earlier tonight will be rewarded, he’s promised, the key to the device she wears on prominent display before he blindfolded her, atop their toy chest when usually he keeps it hidden from view.

Splayed fingers, a large hand, squeeze and knead her breast, blunt fingernails scratch and flick the rosy tips. Between her legs, there’s a warm, wet, pulse and Molly clenches her muscles for some semblance of stimulation.

Finally, he shows her mercy, _blessed mercy!_   when he leaves her swaying in the centre of the room, only to return with the key.

Kneeling before her splayed legs, carefully he removes the belt and Molly begins to pray to any god that’s listening that he’ll touch her. Her arms and legs flex and strain to stay still.

“Molly, Molly,” he tuts playfully, “so wet already?”

He runs his hands over her belly, her backside, her damp thighs. Her breath hitches when his satiny tongue licks from the glistening pale skin above her knee all the way to her blood-swollen lips, then stops. Against her mound, he rumbles, “Beg for it.”

Sherlock waits; his hands grasping her thighs, his thumbs begin to stroke her lips, ready to open them at her imploring. She feels his breath, heavy and excited on her flesh, the tip of his nose pressed against her belly.

“Fuck me, please Sherlock, fuck me, lick me, touch me, do fucking _anything_ , please. God. Please.”

He spreads her open, flicks his tongue, and she keens like an animal in heat. Two of his long, clever fingers slide between her folds to explore her wet cunt. Probing and insistent they breach her and Sherlock slowly scissors them in and out, while he works her clit with his lips.

Molly whimpers, grinding down onto his yielding mouth and strong hand.

“I’ll fuck you – even let you come,” he says between roughly licking and softly sucking, “but you have to promise a forfeit in return.”

 _Is he fucking kidding?_ Molly shudders and stills. _Hasn’t the goddamn belt been enough?_   Jesus. Fucking. Christ.  But what options does she have? She’s been driven almost insane with desperation. It’s been so long that she’ll spontaneously fucking combust if it doesn’t happen right. Fucking. Now.

So, she hears herself plead in a voice that’s high and about to crack, “Yes. Anything. Just, please, please, Sherlock, please, fuck me, please, please, please..”

“Not like that,” he warns, “you know what I want to hear.”

Molly almost sobs in frustration. “Your cock, Sherlock, I need it. I’m a desperate slut who needs your cock inside me, fucking me. I’ll do anything you ask, if you’ll please just give it to me.”

Sherlock stands, but lowers his full mouth to brush his lips against the hardened tips of her breasts. Roughened fingertips trace a line up the sensitive skin of her inner arm, stopping at her wrist, grazing the spot where he can feel the blood rushing through her veins. Above her head, her wrists are released, but he holds them there, in the grasp of one large hand.

“If only they could see you now. Sweet, innocent Molly Hooper. Not an hour ago you had my cock in your pretty mouth while I whipped you, and now you’re begging for it again. I should show you off, take you somewhere where others can see you displayed to full advantage. Would you like that?” he asks, “I could take you out in public, let other men see who you belong to?”

Molly’s breathing quickens and Sherlock holds his breath. She doesn’t answer his question.

After a moment he lets her wrists go. “Blind fold off, lie on the bed,” he instructs.

She’s about to turn from him to comply – eagerly – when he catches her forearm and holds her there. He strokes her cheek, rubs his thumb across her bottom lip. His eyes are serious yet soft, but after a moment they clear, only to fill with a debauched gleam. When he covers her lips with his own, he kisses her tenderly, and with skin pressed to skin, naked body to naked body, his greedy hands search for her backside and breasts.

Breathing his air into her mouth, makes her lightheaded, a bit dizzy.

Sherlock manoeuvres her backward, onto the bed, still kissing her possessively. Molly sinks onto the mattress and pillows, shivering when he settles on top of her, his straining cock nestling between her legs, pinned beneath him, she feels like a butterfly under glass. He always, _always_ , makes her feel this way, as though there isn’t enough oxygen in the room for them both to breathe, as though she’s a specimen on a slide for him to dissect. Though she hides it from him as best she can, she longs for him with a depth and ferocity that terrifies her. But in moments like these, her body betrays her and offers him everything that her heart longs to give.

Sherlock slips a hand between their bodies, caressing the smooth, pink flesh that is so ready to accept him. Arousal radiates from her, but Sherlock not yet ready to let this be over, teases and strokes her with gentle pressure, while with his lips he sucks and bites the tight peaks of her breasts. Molly arches her body against his in a shameless manner, “Please,” she begs, breathless and hoarse.

Their lips meet again, and Molly winds her fingers into his hair. His hand in the hollow behind her knee lifts it, curling her leg around his waist. With the other, he grips his hot, heavy prick and guides it into her, penetrating her in a single, slick press of his hips as she tightens around him.

Molly cries out in relief. He stifles the needy sounds she begins to make by pressing his tongue into her mouth, she responds by caressing it with her own and sucking at his lush lips until his cock is fucking her with the same rhythm as his kiss.

She feels like she’s burning; every nerve is on fire. She’s waited weeks for this, to feel his stiff cock filling her, stretching her open. When he moves inside her, she feels ever ridge of his uncut shaft, every vein. His body is pressed so tightly against hers that every inward stroke causes him to rub against her clit. Molly trembles, fists his hair tighter, tighter, and he groans, base and lurid. The vibration in his diaphragm when he moans feels like heaven against her aching nipples, so she pulls again causing him to jerk and twist against her soaked core.

Now buried deeply, he pumps his hips against the engorged bud that throbs with the need for climax between the vee of her open folds. She can feel her orgasm beginning to build, every thrust, every press of flesh to heated flesh brings her closer. Her obscenely spread legs quiver and shake, her eyes fall closed, her lips part to exhale hoarse moans. Her cunt moves against his stiff prick in shallow, rapid circles, her breathing erratic and harsh. “Harder,” she begs, frantically meeting his every rut, desperate for friction, “faster.”

So he speeds up, and she moans in response, “Oh god, I – I –”

He thrusts deeply. Once, twice.

“That’s it, come for me.”

“I –”

“Come, Molly, come.”

When he bites down on her neck, she does.

Molly screams his name, her cunt fluttering around him, tugging at his cock. Her orgasm sends a torrent of electrical sparks through her entire body.

Boneless beneath him, she watches his lovely face contort with pleasure as he comes inside her.

Hot open mouthed kisses are pressed to the curve of his collarbone and jaw as he bows his head to whisper in her ear, “ _Molly, Molly, Molly_..”

 

**~~~~~~~~~~~**

 

She’s breath-takingly beautiful after an orgasm, he thinks. Illuminated in the afterglow, Molly’s head rests on his chest, her cinnamon hair fanned out loosely across her shoulders, her skin stained pink and misted in the dew caused by the exertion of their sex. There are bite marks and bruises on her delicate throat that will tell the world what they’ve done. They’ll have to be covered with scarves and polo neck sweaters for days until they fade. She won’t mind.

He draws her closer, and she sighs with sheer contentment, flashing a smile at him so brilliant that it reminds him of sunlight. He’s devastated by how seductive the feeling of _home_ and _right_ that she exudes from every look is to him.

It’s never been like this before. There’s been want, yes, even satisfaction in the beds he’s shared. But never this, this.. need. This desire to protect and be protected, the ridiculously human weakness for her affection, for her benevolently bestowed touch.

They don’t talk about those things. Even though they share their kinks, even though they have intimacy and trust, he has no idea what that tells him about how she _feels_. What exists between them isn’t a relationship, not really. Kisses are never shared that don’t lead to sex, and what they have is confined strictly between the walls of his flat (rarely: Mrs Hudson, too observant, Mycroft too nosey), and her spare room, where their games have become more frequent, more.. intimate. 

 _Is this it?_ He wonders. _Is this what people mean when they say ‘love’?_ It’s the question he asks himself when he lies in bed at night, unable to sleep, with his heart so full that it feels like a firework that’s about to explode. There’s nothing he won’t take from her, nothing he won’t let her have.

There are times, fleeting split second flashes, when he thinks it’s possible that she feels the same way too, but the harder he looks for them, the fewer he finds, and in the end he forces himself to accept that it’s just wishful thinking.

“Sherlock?” Molly stirs in his arms, snapping him out of his post-coital haze. Her eyes are full of mischief, lit up like fireflies when she looks up at him, “Are you going to tell me what my forfeit is?”

Wishful thinking, he reminds himself. And just like that, the questions he wants to ask, the things he’d like to say all put aside, because despite how he feels, what he sees in her eyes isn’t the same thing he feels in his heart.

So he’ll continue to play the games, to share her bed, and maybe, _just maybe_ , someday it won’t be wishful thinking anymore.

In one smooth move he rolls her over, and she squeals with surprise, squirms and wriggles beneath him with no real intention of freeing herself. The sound of her joy is bright and glorious. It makes his chest ache with loneliness. But he sets his heart aside, and instead of asking for what he wants, he takes what she’s willing to give.

“For your insolence, Doctor Hooper,” he tells her through breathless laughing as she mock-struggles beneath him, “your forfeit is a damn good spanking.”


	4. Goldfish

Mycroft’s town residence is exactly as one would expect. Neat, efficient, impeccably and tastefully (read: extortionately) decorated. The four bed, four and a half bath maisonette on Pall Mall is just a stone’s throw from his club. Nothing is ever out of place, the whole of it neatly ordered. Yet much like the man himself, appearances are not always what they seem.

It’s his brother’s birthday. And in the months since Sherlock lost a beloved friend and gained a sister something has shifted in the way he sees his family - blood and otherwise. The love he feels for his brother has grown deeper, and they are closer than he would ever have imagined possible. Kinder to each other too. So when Mycroft extended an invitation to the afternoon cocktail party he’d planned (one that coincided, accidentally of course, with the anniversary of his birth), the detective made it his business to be there.

Just off a flight from Berlin after a twelve day absence from London, (the case a nine, well paid), Sherlock’s first port of call is Mycroft’s master en-suite for a shower and fresh suit before he joins the party downstairs. Looking for his own aftershave, buried somewhere in his hastily packed luggage, would be an inconvenience, so he uses his brother’s instead.

On the bottom shelf of the bathroom cabinet, stored along with an assortment of creams and potions marketed to men of a certain age, is a small bottle of two-toned eye make-up remover. The brand is exclusive, salon only, and the container is about half full so clearly has been used. It’s travel sized, perhaps brought here in a handbag and accidentally forgotten.

This leads Sherlock to make the following deductions:

  1. Mycroft leads a second life. By day he is a staid government official, by night a drag performer who goes by the name of Helluva Bottom Carter, singing show tunes while wearing sequins and six inch heels. Or,
  2. Mycroft’s icy blood runs hotter these days, and he’s recently entertained an overnight guest.



Deduction number one is perfectly plausible – the proclivity does run in the family after all. Although it’s amusing to imagine, he knows instinctively that Uncle Rudy holds the honour of being the only cross-dresser in the Holmes clan. Therefore deduction two is the more likely by a country mile.

With an impatience to torment his host, Sherlock joins the intimate gathering in the walnut panelled drawing room. The mystery of the bottle’s owner is immediately solved, much to his delight.

At Mycroft’s side stands Lady Smallwood. Their body language shows restraint, and but for the way they sneak glances at one another Sherlock might question whether he’s identified the right suspect at all.

But then he remembers that the Ice Man’s code name for the blonde is conspicuously sentimental, and he’s suddenly very pleased with his choice of birthday gift for Brother Dear.

 _Love_ , Sherlock’s mouth ticks up at one corner. Love indeed.

Clever as the detective is, Mycroft is always one step ahead. Which is why he finds himself out manoeuvred by the simple act of an unexpected invitation extended to an unexpected guest. A counter-strike by Mr I-am-the-smart-one, who’d doubtlessly predicted Sherlock’s observations. What better way to deflect attention from his paramour than by reminding Sherlock that he has his own secrets to protect?

In the drawing room doorway stands Molly.

One of the catering staff offers to take her coat, and Sherlock looks on, his heart aching at the sight of her. Hair falling over one shoulder in a cascade of loose curls, nails painted - with tempting lips to match - in a bright red that contrasts strikingly with her glowing skin. Wearing stilettoes that elongate her shapely legs, and a fuchsia dress that follows the curves of her breasts and hips, she looks like a goddess.

Twelve days has been too long not to hold her, to kiss her, to hear her gentle voice say his name. It takes every ounce of strength he has not to run to her and wrap her in his arms.

Then their eyes meet. And the fiery flirtatious look she gives him turns his thoughts from holding to binding, from kissing to dragging his teeth over her neck, from her gentle voice to her harsh cries.

Molly blushes scarlet at the flash of passionate heat he gives her in return.

There’s a throb of arousal in his groin. Then the fit of his trousers changes, and he realises that his choice of the closely fitted black suit that he’s wearing may not have been wise. 

In an effort not to embarrass himself in a room full of strangers, he decides on a course of action that has him taking Molly by the hand and dragging her up the stairs two at a time. When they reach a guest bedroom, he asks, “Your colour?”

Molly laughs. “It’s been two weeks, of course it’s bloody green.”

“Excellent.” He locks the door and divests himself of his jacket. “Shall we?”

 

~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Sherlock rubs a thumb over Molly’s chin, his hand on her throat like a collar.

Eyelids fluttering shut, she arches into his touch, biting her bottom lip.

He sucks in a breath, “Allow me,” and catches it between his teeth.

Pushed against the bedroom wall, he kisses her. It’s a dirty kiss, rough, one that’s full of demanding and possessive thoughts.

Molly _loves_ it.

His eyes on her, soft as starlight, are full of mischief and promise. It’s intoxicating, turning herself over to him to be handled this way - Coarsely. Tenderly.

 “You, Doctor Hooper, have done this to me on purpose, haven’t you?” He slots a leg between her knees and forces them apart.

Pressing her hand against the bulge in his trousers, Molly lets out an excited little breath. Through the fine fabric, she squeezes his hard prick, rubbing the heel of her hand from base to tip.

“Feet apart, my girl. Hands against the wall.” One hand on her hip, he crouches down in front of her.

No longer her own, she belongs to Sherlock now. Her eyes closed, she feels his hand between her legs softly smoothing upward, all the way from her calf, under her dress, to between her thighs, finally hooking a finger into her knickers. With a soft whisper of fabric, he slowly slides them down her legs to the floor and stands, pocketing the barely there scrap of lace.

One huge hand takes her wrists, restrains them above her head, with the other he opens his fly. A quiet rumble of the zipper being lowered, trousers shoved below the curve of his backside, he takes himself out, and sets about raising the hem of her dress above her waist. Bared to him, turgid hot flesh presses against her belly.  

“A low-cut dress. The heels that I like.” He nips and bites at her carnal red lips. “You knew I wouldn’t be able to keep my hands off of you.”

Greedy fingers ghost over the soft flesh of her abdomen to where their bodies meet, muscles twitching at his touch. Sherlock grasps himself, and with the head of his penis he teases her clit, precum seeping from the distended slit, circling with a firm, forceful pace. She gasps, her mouth a perfect pretty O, eyelids flickering closed.

Dropping kisses to the delicately flushing rounded swell of Molly’s breasts, he says “You wanted me to fuck you, didn’t you?”

At the surge of indescribably pleasurable pressure, Molly breathes a long drawn out, _“Aaahhhh.”_

“Say. It.” He growls out, all moist breath and insistent lips, punctuating each word with a snap of his hips, his erection sliding against her. “I want to hear you asking for my cock.”

“I want it.” Molly can barely speak for the dizzying sensation of the tip of Sherlock’s prick now sinking into her wet folds. “Please, I... _mmm.._.” she moans when his blessedly brilliant fingers toy with her clit. “That’s it, touch me,” Molly heaves out an uneven breath, “fuck me.”

“As you’ve asked me so nicely,” Sherlock releases her wrists, still pinning her body to the wall with his own, “I just might. But first,” he unbuttons his shirt, “take your tits out. I want to feel them pressed against me when I’m inside you.”

“ _God_ ,” Molly whispers low and husky, eyes wide. Coarse language, spoken with the plush, perfect lips of a wicked angel, in Sherlock’s posh public school purr, is a kink of hers that he exploits at every opportunity.

Obediently, she pulls the front of her dress down to expose rosy tipped breasts, tweaks and pinches them while he looks on, raven curls spilling over his flaming cheekbones, a ravenous gleam in his eyes.

“ _Sherlock_ ,” she hisses. And _Oh!_ Clever man that he is, he’s taken a nipple into his mouth, rolling it between tongue and teeth.

“Please, please, please...” Molly begs, her voice raspy – a sound that sends endless shivers down her lover’s spine.

He wastes no time. Hands under her backside, he lifts her against the wall and repositions his hips, lining them up for penetration. Molly clutches at his shoulders, blunt fingernails scratching, and lets him guide her onto his shaft, her lean legs curled around his waist, the spike of her heels digging into his plump cheeks.

He breaches her in a smooth press. Gravity and the weight of her body work together to take him inside all the way down to the root. She can feel his balls, heated and heavy, against her arse.

“I saw you. Did you think I wouldn’t catch you staring at the bulge in my trousers, hoping that I’d give it to you?” At this he kneads her backside, gliding her up and down the length of him, using her silky core to stroke his sex. “Insolent girl. I should punish you for that, make you lie down on the bed, dress pulled up, knickers pushed to one side, and have you get yourself off with just your fingers. You know how I like to watch.”

Molly, held tightly against him, gasps when he rubs a finger over her anus.

“If you can’t control these impulses for yourself, I’m going to have to teach you some discipline. Later when I come over to your flat, I’m going to put you over my lap and paddle you. Then you’ll present yourself to me on your hands and knees, legs open so that I can look at you with your arse pink and tender before I fuck it. It won’t be like here. You won’t have to be quiet. I won’t even gag you – Do you know why?” Heat rises in his voice, “Because I like to listen to the noises you make when you’re desperate for my cock.”

She whines, an impatient needy sound, grabs his hair and kisses him. He’s pushing those buttons on purpose, and it’s working – she’s getting wetter, even more aroused just thinking about how it feels to display herself to him, supplicating.

Sherlock spreads her as wide as he can, and she hears herself moan into his mouth.

Her nipples graze his chest, caressing them to stiff peaks. Every thrust rubs his hard pelvic bone over her clit and pleasure builds, coiling, tingling at every place there’s contact. Rocking forward and back, Sherlock is leaning against her: breasts to sternum, thighs to hips, mouth to mouth, cunt to cock, a closed circuit of sexual gratification.

“I want to have you pierced Molly, will you let me?” He pants, drunk with lust, his rigid manhood deep inside her.

In response, she arches, baring her throat to him, shuddering.

“I’ve thought of little else while I was away. You love it when I play with your tits, you’re already so sensitive, just imagine how much more intense it could be. A bar in your nipple-”

“ _Fuuuuck_ ,” she breathes, frantically bucking against him.

“-or a ring in your labia. Something to remind you when I’m not there that your body isn’t your own.”

 _Oh God_ , how she wants that. To touch her own breast and know that he possesses it. To feel the brushing of metal between her legs, and to know with every step that she was his. That he would want that too-

“Yes. Yes. Do whatever you want with me.” Molly feels lightheaded, afloat, barely able to breathe just imagining what he would do to her. Her body constricting from lack of air, she tightens around him.

Sherlock grunts, “ _Uh_ , that’s good. I’m so fucking close.”

It’s not going to take much more, and Sherlock must sense that too because he covers the pulse that’s hammering in her throat with his mouth and sucks (that being another of her Sherlock specific kinks, because, Jesus Sodding Christ, _his mouth!_ ), all the while fucking her in an ever increasing rhythm.

“Come with me. Now. I want you to come,” he demands.

Molly feels it when the first spasm of his orgasm hits, and his pulsing cock begins to spill inside her. She throws her head back, hits it off the wall – _Thunk_ – and comes, her nails biting into Sherlock’s clothed shoulder hard enough that it’ll bruise, trying to muffle the scream that bubbles up from the bottom of her lungs. When she draws back, the need to gulp in air abating, Sherlock softly kisses her mouth.

“You alright?” He asks, short of breath.

Molly’s slightly jellied legs lower to the ground, and in the aftermath they hold each other close.

“Yes.”

With a wry grin, he takes from his pocket the lace trimmed panties that he’d stripped her of earlier. Molly reaches for them, and Sherlock clucks his tongue, shakes his head - _Tut, Tut._

“We haven’t discussed your punishment yet, little girl.”

“Later. The paddle…?”

“Will be a lesson in _discipline_.”

Which is a fair point, Molly concedes. The black rubber toy has always been her favourite, more often used when he wants to indulge rather than punish.

“I’m going to keep these,” shoving her knickers back into his trouser pocket, “and as an apology for getting me hard at an inconvenient time, you’ll go without for seven days. No tights either - stockings if you must - and you’re to wear only dresses. I want to be able to lift your skirt and have you however and whenever I like.”

Molly trembles at this, licks her lips, her lids fluttering.

“To make sure that you’ve done exactly as I’ve instructed, you’ll receive several text messages every day. When I tell you to, you’ll immediately go somewhere private and take a picture of your legs spread open and send it to me. I expect you to shave every day so that I can admire what’s mine. For any infraction of the rules, you’ll earn yourself a day in my flat on your knees, where no clothes will be permitted at all.”

Molly’s eyes are heavy-lidded, her breathing shallow, sharp. She’s already decided to ignore at least one of those promised texts, because, _Oh,_ kneeling before him nude, his gaze weighing heavily on her as she waits to be taken, eyes to the floor, knees apart and hands behind her back, Sherlock watching her cunt getting wetter, her nipples stiffening as she anticipates what he’ll do next. That sounds exactly like the kind of trouble she’d like to get in to.

“And to help you keep it in mind that _this_ ,” he insinuates a hand between her damp thighs, “is at my constant disposal, you may not cross your legs, nor hold your knees together when we are alone. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes.” Molly shivers. Lips parted, she nods almost distractedly.

“Still green?”

“Absofuckinglutely.”

A twitching amused smile plays about his lips, “Good.” Right hand on the side of her neck, the left over her sternum, he kisses her mouth again. The flat broad palm of his hand separates her breasts and rests over her thunderously beating heart.

Her hands sink into his oh so soft hair, fingertips rubbing circles into the curls at the nape of his neck, tongue licking tongue. It’s erotic, undeniably, but full of gentle affection too.

In the time it takes them to straighten their clothes and hair, they’ve mostly composed themselves. Cleaned up, tucked back in, it occurs to them that they are supposed to be at a party for someone’s birthday.

Looking around for the gift he’d picked up in the airport book shop, _“A-ha!”_ he exclaims, finding the paper bag under the jacket he’d thrown onto the bed when he’d first entered the room.

“Help me wrap this, would you? I’m rubbish at this sort of thing.” He gives her his best puppy dog look, the one she can’t resist. With a half-smile she trims the paper, curls the ribbon, and Sherlock tapes it all together.

For the life of her, Molly can’t quite figure out why he’s giving his brother a copy of _‘An essential guide to caring for goldfish._ ’ Mycroft just doesn’t seem the tropical fish type. But then, knowing Sherlock, that’s probably the point.

“I- I brought a gift home for you too,” he pretends not to look at her as he puts the final flourishes to the wrapping.

“Oh?” Well, that’s unexpected.

“Just some items of jewellery. More a costume than anything else.”

There’s a hint of nervousness in him, as though he’s afraid she’ll reject the gift or the game it’s intend to be used in. How he can think that way when she’s never been able to refuse him anything is beyond her comprehension.

“That’s lovely of you. Thank you.” With closed lips, Molly kisses him sweetly. “Why don’t you keep it as a surprise for now, and we’ll make plenty of time this weekend to play?”

“It’s a date.”

The darling man blushes at his misspoken words. The small hint of bashfulness is so unbelievably hot that if she doesn’t leave right this second, she’ll end up begging him to bend her over the dressing table and shag her senseless.

“Okay. I’ll go down first. You follow in a minute or two.” She gives her bright pink party dress one last brush of hands to smooth out the wrinkles, and turns toward the door.

But he catches her hand. Full Cupid’s bow lips flattened into a thin white line. Their fingers brush in a careful touch.

“Molly, you should know...” He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath.  “That is, I wanted to say…”

When his sky coloured eyes flutter open to meet hers, they shine with a light that she sees more and more often these days, the crooked grin blooming on his lips spreads out to crinkle the corners in the sexiest way imaginable, and she knows he’s saying more than the words he’s just spoken.

Molly’s smile lights up the whole room. “I know. I missed you too.”

And then she’s gone.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Something is different. An almost imperceptible shift in her demeanour in the twelve days he’s been away, but a shift nonetheless. She is..less guarded, softer. It could be as simple as her missing him, as she said, but..

Hope blossoms at the thought that maybe she is beginning to feel for him what he feels for her, and that maybe too it’s time to cautiously test the waters that he longs to tread. Throat tightening, he steadies himself.

He presses his hands and forehead to the wall where her body had been. It’s still warm, faintly scented with her perfume.

The indulgence is allowed for a brief moment. Sherlock breathes her in, exhales to quell the pull he feels in his chest every time he thinks of her, then re-joins Molly and the rest of the party downstairs.


	5. Human Error

_~~~~~~~~~~~_

 

_May I come over? There’s something I need to say. –SH_

~~~~~~~~~~~

 

She’s losing him.

He feels like smoke escaping through her fingers into the sky as she tries to hold it in her hands.

The knot that’s been twisting in her stomach grows mercilessly tighter. It’s the we-need-to-talk talk that usually proceeds the it’s-not-you-it’s-me talk.

Molly picks up her phone and stares at the screen. Filled with uncertainty, she scrolls to the number she’s been thinking about texting all afternoon, changes her mind and locks it again. Sitting in her seat by the window she stares at the melancholy rain clouds gathering over London. 

She feels this- this- terrible longing in her chest every time she even thinks of Sherlock, because as much as they are together is as much as they are not. She loves him, the deed is done. Long years have passed since she tried to convince herself of any other truth.

There's a pang in her chest that feels a bit like a broken heart. It’s was only ever going to be a matter of time before he tired of her.

They share a bed, but it’s nothing more than that to him. Sherlock comes to her because he wants to fuck her, not because he wants to be with her. He doesn’t love her. Whatever this is, it isn’t that.

It’s not his fault. No more than you can blame the sun for burning your skin, she can’t blame Sherlock for the hurt she feels. She knew from the start what she was getting into, but that doesn’t mean her heart isn’t breaking because he doesn’t feel for her what she feels for him.

He’s not pining over Molly Hooper, dreaming of a cottage in the country with room for kids and a dog, or of them growing old together. No. Of course not. He’s just not that man.

And Molly hates being the woman who wants him to be.

She could move on. It’s not a question of opportunity, rather one of inclination.  He’s in her blood. No one else is Him.

It’s obvious what would happen. She would try to put it behind her, throw herself into a new relationship with a kind and boring man. At first it would be fine, but then the cracks would show. Molly would be bored. The man – one with a bland name and equally bland life – would be shocked by her predilections. He would try to understand, even to indulge, but she would lie there wishing it was someone else. She’d have to change, become just as bland as him or risk him leaving. Inevitably she’d grow tired of the compromise, resent him. He’d grow frustrated at her unhappiness and grow distant. In other words, it would be Tom all over again. But at least she could love freely and be loved in return. She wouldn’t die alone, wishing for a life that was never going to be hers. She could have a home, a family. Comfort. Companionship. It wouldn’t be perfect, but then what is?

Yet there’s a voice in her head that answers His name to every question about love and life. One that tells her any life with Sherlock is better than any life without.

So in the end it comes down to this: find a way to be part of _His_ life and live a half-life with someone she loves, or let one of the lovely men she’s met into her heart and live a half-life with someone who loves her. Not exactly stellar options. But they are her options all the same.

Molly turns her phone over in her hands. Unlocks it. Searches for Matt’s number again. Just because she’s losing Sherlock, it doesn’t mean she has to sit idly by and wait to be left. It’s not too late to take control of the situation.

Outside, a late spring storm has begun to rip the blossoms from the trees, tearing the flowers apart like a flurry of confetti caught on the wind, while rain drops turn into a stream that runs down the glass to blur the view of the outside world.

She types the text, reads it twenty or thirty times with her heart beating in her throat. Her hands are shaking. Not sure at all that she’s doing the right thing, Molly closes her eyes and hits send before she can change her mind.

Quickly, she types another, this time to Sherlock _: I’d rather play than talk. M._

For the entire three hundred and seventy two seconds it takes Sherlock to answer, Molly runs through one disastrous scenario after another in her head waiting for it all to end as abruptly as it began. She’s not nearly ready for that. Not now. Not yet.

By the time he replies, blood is pounding in her ears in time with the downpour outside, her nerves are frayed by the thunder that’s rolling over the city.

_As you wish. Instructions will follow. –SH_

It’s not a solution, but it’s bought her time, and that’s all she needs right now.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~

 

His instructions are simple:

_Touch yourself. Keep your cunt wet for me. You are not permitted to finish._

By the time she’s summoned to Baker Street Molly’s been on the edge for hours. Standing by his bed, Sherlock beckons her to stand before him. His hands sliding up her neck, cradling the back of her head he kisses her open-mouthed. It’s warm. Gentle. Coloured at the fringes by something darker.

Dangerous.

One hand snakes down her spine, cups her backside, palms it, and Molly whines when he grinds his pelvis against hers.

When the kiss ends, Molly sighs shakily. “Sherlock.”

It’s more than his name. It’s a plea for release.

“Soon,” he says brushing a hand up her body searching for her breast, the pad of his thumb sweeping circles over the pronounced tip when he finds it. “I’ll give you what you want but it’ll come at a price,” Sherlock twists his fingers in Molly’s hair and pushes her to her knees. “Tonight I’m going to be very good to you, but in return for my kindness you’re going to be very good to me.”

Molly presses herself forward, hands on Sherlock’s hips, and covers his still clothed erection with her mouth. Hot and moist on his half-hard cock, she looks up at him from between her lashes, her huge brown eyes all questioning innocence.

He’s watching her in that intense, almost clinical way he does sometimes, as though he’s trying to deduce her but turning up empty.

All it takes is one soft suck through his trousers to derail any progress he’s making. She watches as his dark eyelashes flutter and his lips part. It won’t take long to relieve him of his suit and his composure.

“Nothing so simple,” he manages to say, half amused, half challenged. “Insolent girl.”

Even if she’s going to have to pay for it later, Molly can’t help it. He may be the dominant one but still there are things she can control, and she’ll be damned if she’ll let go of them. Sherlock has her heart, her body, her submission, but she is still the only one that can make him apologise for his thoughtlessness, or seek her approval when he’s miss-stepped.  For all that she gives him there’s one thing he doesn’t seem to want – her mind. Provocation, defiance, bravery, he wants – _needs_ – them all.

“I want to undress you,” his voice is low, deliberate, his fingers tighten in her hair pulling her off his cock, “strip you bare, then I’ll have you on the bed.”

“What are you going to do to me?” Molly asks in little more than a hoarse whisper. Already she feels arousal concentrating at the apex of her thighs.

“First I’m going to teach you to have self-control. You’re beautifully docile – except when you’re not – so a refresher is in order. If you’re a good student and your behaviour pleases me, I’ll let you come. If not, you’ll wear a plug every day for a month and the only part of you I’ll touch with my cock will be your backside. You’ll be made to take it any way that I want, but you’ll get nothing for yourself.” Sherlock’s smile is sinful but his eyes are gloriously bright. “In any event, you’ll be fulfilling a fantasy once I'm done with you. Whether it’s pleasurable for both of us or just me will be up to you. Understood?”

“Yes, Sir.” A flash of arousal rushes over her as the new word leaves her lips.

“Molly- ?” A pinkish bloom spreading over his cheeks. He looks a little…stunned. Touched.

“Yes, Sir,” she repeats seeing Sherlock shiver, his cheeks aflame.

“Your colour?” The faint flush has deepened and the edges of it are bleeding into the pale skin over his throat. A lock of messy curl falls over his shining eyes, and his Adam’s apple bobs up and down.

“Green,” is her immediate answer.

His jaw tenses and relaxes. Sherlock clears his throat, “Then stand. Hands at your side.”

Guiding her to stand between his knees as he sits on the bed, slowly he removes her clothing. She loves it when he does this, takes control of her, objectifies her in a way that lets her float free from herself and makes her heart soar. His desire is shameless. This, _this_ , is what she’s longed for every time an earnest young man gave her roses when she only wanted thorns, every time they’d held her hand when what she really wanted was for it to be bound to the bedpost. 

It feels so… _intimate_ : with a teasing seduction, he opens her blouse button by button, letting it hang loose from her shoulders to reveal only slivers of her skin at a time. Sherlock’s eyes darken. In the valley of her exposed breasts he kisses her, his hands skimming her ribs, ever higher until he’s petting the fleshy slopes and curves. They’re maddeningly measured, his touches. The pressure becomes firmer, more deliberate, and even though he refuses to touch the tip it’s stirring an impatience to have him inside her. It’s as much for him as for her, she knows, stretching the moments out like warm toffee to heighten every sensation.

Molly makes tiny noises of approval. Sherlock calls her an impatient little slut, though when she looks down at him he’s smiling.

His body is responding in the same way as hers. Sherlock ignores his nascent erection in favour of Molly’s breasts, her backside, her thighs.

She never feels more naked than when he does this to her while he’s still fully dressed. One piece at a time he peels her clothing away – blouse, skirt, bra, everything but her knickers, all falling to the floor – strips her bare, letting his strong hands roam where they will, Molly softly moaning when his lips follow their path.

Goose bumps rise where he licks over her belly, between her legs he insinuates a hand. He smiles when she gasps at the intrusion.

He strokes a finger into the damp furrow and it’s all she can do not to thrust against it, because she wants his hands, his mouth, his cock, to give up this pretence of gentle love-making and fuck her hard and rough until she’s screaming out in frantic relief. Yet she knows that she’ll be denied anything she asks for, so instead she bites her lip and lets him probe an inquisitive finger inside her while she tries to control herself.

“Not nearly wet enough for what I have in mind,” he rumbles against her navel sounding filthy, his free hand delivering a sharp slap to her arse that draws a lurid moan from her. She is, in fact, dripping her body is so shot through with arousal.

“Lie down, there’s my good girl. On your back. Arms stretched over your head.”

Finally. _Finally_.

Molly obeys, and Sherlock reaches behind the headboard pulling out a length of chain that is fastened to a hook in the frame. At the end of each chain is a soft leather cuff.

“You’ll be bound for this…experiment, and I expect you to be patient. You may come, but only with my permission. Any begging, any plea for mercy, any request to come will result in immediate cessation and I’ll turn you over and plug you there and then. You may speak when you’re spoken to, you can make sounds, but except for that only your colour is allowed.”

As he speaks, Sherlock slips the cuffs around Molly’s wrists. Working quickly he tests their tightness. Too tight they’ll do damage, too loose they’ll fail to steady her.

It isn’t unusual to have her hands restrained during play. He likes it. He likes it a lot. Truth be told she loves the feeling of helplessness too. But Molly isn’t expecting him to go to the edges of the bed and spread her legs, knees bent, fastening an ankle to either side of the base with the same type of chains and cuffs as her wrists.

He senses a question in her eyes that she’s not permitted to give voice to. “As I said, tonight is for experimentation. New things.”

Molly practically vibrates with anticipation.

Already she feels the want for more. Legs spread obscenely wide, her breasts – tipped with hard peaks – are heaving with shuddery breaths. In her ears, blood pounds. Molly knows she looks like a whore, laid out and waiting to be fucked. Her limbs stretched so that her muscles are on the verge of discomfort: her skin even more sensitive for the same reason.

On the sheet where she is displayed for his satisfaction, Sherlock begins to lay out his tools.

From the dresser drawer he takes the smallest of the four boxes that he’s brought home from Berlin. About six inches long, but only two wide, it bears the mark of a prestigious German jeweller known in certain circles for their custom pieces. Next to the box he places a bottle of lubricant, the type that increases sensation, and a set of nipple vibrators. A knife.

Her amber flecked eyes meet his. The wicked intent that she sees there fans the already burning coals in her belly into flames.

“Trust, my girl. Let me take care of you.” He bends over the bed and kissed her softly, no trace of hardness in his gaze only something gentle and affectionate, lustful and aroused. “You won’t come to any harm.”

Sherlock divests himself of his clothing, coming to kneel between her knees.

With a roguish gleam in his eyes, he lowers himself over her, dips his head between her thighs and through the gauzy lace of her underwear he pressed his nose against her pussy, nuzzling her clit, his hot breath ghosting over the place where his lips meet hers.

“You smell delicious. Like vanilla.”

Molly stifles the sound that’s trying to escape from her mouth when Sherlock glides the tips of his fingers along the edge of her knickers, down the inside of her leg and back up again.

“Do you taste like it too?” His teeth scrape over the fabric and he catches it between his teeth and plucks. Her stomach muscles ripple and she writhes into the crisp sheets when he sucks her clit through the wet lace.

The vantage point isn’t great, but she can see his unruly mop of curls, raven, framed by her expanse of English-rose thigh, his kaleidoscopic gaze on her. The sight thrills her beyond belief.

Sherlock licks the crease of her hip, again his teeth pluck at her knickers, this time he bites her too. “Time to take these off.”

He kisses her sweet cunt and reaches for the knife, scraping the blade over her underwear and slipping it inside. 

Molly’s breath hitches. “What a tender little thing you are,” he scolds. The metal is cold on her heated flesh. He twists the blade, slices the gusset open and casts it aside in favour of the contents of the small box.

His stiff, wet erection brushes her leg, and for the first time she sees how painfully hard he is.

“Do you know what this is?” Sherlock holds up a small metal clip to her view.  A little shorter than the box it came from, it is an elongated U shaped clip, flexible and rounded at the ends.

Even with permission to speak she isn’t able to. Instead she nods. _Yes_ , she’d heard of clit clips before.

“Have you ever used one?”

Molly shakes her head, arousal pulsing between her legs. _No_.

“I’ll take it slowly. You should only feel pleasure, but I’m trusting you to safeword if you have any discomfort. Alright?”

She can barely breathe with the thought of what he’s about to do. Her entire body twitches, she’s so desperate for it.

“Yes. God yes.”

Sherlock takes a deep breath, something settling over him. At first his brows draw together in an almost question, but then he smiles, his eyes crinkling. “You are amazing,” he says, kissing her mouth fiercely, “I- you’re extraordinary.”

Pupils dilated, cock twitching, Sherlock spreads lubricant over his fingers and positions himself flat on the bed, resting on his elbows.

The first squeeze to her clit comes from his lips. His right index and middle fingers massage her entrance, firm but gentle strokes that open her slowly, while with his lips he sucks her clit into his mouth massaging it with his velvet tongue. Every few strokes, Sherlock darts his tongue out and sweeps it from where his fingers join with her body along her soft labia. With his left hand he rubs her pubic bone with light pressure.

Molly softly pants. Over the thunderous rush in her ears she can her Sherlock’s lewd sucking and the creak of leather as she pulls, chains scoring the headboard.

Bracketed by her legs, her lover smears lubricant along the open seam of her body and takes her engorged clitoris between his fingertips. Everywhere he touches feels like a current passing under her skin.

Clever man that he is, he’s kept the clip warm with the heat of his body so that all she feels when he slides it over her clit and labia is a wonderful throb-tingle-pulse.

“Good?”

“ _Ahhh…”_ she sighs, _“…_ It’s incredible.”

It’s not tight, but its firm. Her awareness of every pulse and tingle in her cunt increases one hundred fold instantly. Every brush of his lips, every flick of his tongue has her on the brink of orgasm. And Sherlock is relentless. Because of the clip he can’t push inside her, so instead he fingers her anus, each careful press synchronised with the tip of his tongue flicking side to side over her swollen clit.

Molly pants out, “Oh my God.”

“Not yet, little girl, not yet,” he rumbles against her sex, the vibration of his voice causing sharp jolts of electricity to prickle under her skin, shooting out in all directions at once.

Building inside of her is the urge to just beg for it, to rut against his mouth until she comes, screaming for him from the bottom of her lungs.

But before she can do anything his mouth and fingers are gone and Molly whimpers a frustrated sob.

“I don’t want to stop,” he says by way of a warning, switching his attentions to her breasts, “but I will if you misbehave.”

Molly tosses her head back, pressing into the pillows, arching her back, her breasts pushing up, her mouth opening in a soundless gasp. In the gap between her thighs the tip of his crimson hued cock slip-slides over her labia, down and back, prodding at her hole.

Both panting, she moans out his name and then he’s kissing her, licking his way into her mouth, sucking, biting at her lips, his tongue rolling over hers.

His palms, slick with lube, rub all around the curve of her breasts in ever decreasing circles until, at last, he touched the taut tips, pressing, kneading, squeezing, plucking until they contract into hard points of flesh.

To each nipple he attaches a vibrator. Held in place with a little lube, the cups fix with perfect suction to her breasts.

She’s agonisingly turned-on. Every heartbeat resolves itself as a pulse of arousal that emanates from the clipped flesh between her legs, every brush of Sherlock’s body against her hyper-sensitive skin pushes her to the brink of the most intense orgasm she’s ever had. Every enough-not-enough vibration of the tiny rubber bristles massaging her nipples makes her want to scream and beg and plead.

Sherlock, on his knees between her legs, his hard cock in hand, a look of pure lust in his eyes.

Molly bucks off the bed, pulling the chains against the headboard again. It is too much, too good, her throaty moans are loud even to her own ears. She wants to cry out for him like an animal in heat. To beg for him to take that hard cock and split her in two. But she’s hoarse and breathless, too far gone.

“God, Molly, you’re so perfect,” he tells her, his cock sliding wetly in his fist, his tongue licking away the salty dew from her skin, “you’re so good, so good. Fuck yourself on my mouth. Say it, Molly. Say it now.”

Overheated, breathless, perspiration gathers in the hollow of her throat. “Please Sir, please, let me come.”

And then without warning, he’s lapping at her cunt again, easing the clip away from her throbbing clit. His tongue touches her like a live wire.

 “ _Oh fuck_ ,” Molly wails as the blood flows back to into her labia and clit, bringing with it a renewed intensity, the first tremors of her orgasm hitting. With what little movement she can manage, Molly bears down on his tongue. Hips bucking in an erratic rhythm, backside flexing, she rocks into his mouth, heels sinking deeper into the mattress begging for leverage that she just can’t find. Close-not-close-enough. Then his lips are there, his scissored fingers rubbing inside of her. Harder. Faster. Deeper. Everything happening all at once.

Never before has her entire body climaxed. The orgasm pulses out from her clit, her cervix, her anus. Her nipples tingle, her skin shivers and she’s hit with wave after wave of bone-deep ecstasy that leave her lightheaded and gasping for air. Molly clamps down on his fingers, her vision whiting out. One protracted contraction after another is drawn from her by Sherlock’s mouth. Pulled taut like the strings of a bow, she pulls against her bonds, thrashing her head from side to side.

Only when she has collapsed back onto the bed, the last of it leaving her every edge blurred and fuzzy, is she even distantly aware of Sherlock’s laboured breathing, his sharp cry, and then his hot semen splashing on to her drenched cunt and arse.

Then his lips are on her again, roughly licking his cum from her skin.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~

 

It doesn’t take much to clean up. He’s checked her blood supply, made sure she’s had enough to drink, and with a warm flannel cleaned between her thighs, her breasts. The toys can wait until later, because all he wants right now is to lie beside her, take her in his arms. It’s been too long and he’s had something he’s wanted to tell her for weeks now.

It’s terrifying, waiting to ask her to be his: to say those three words, to offer his heart and pray that she wants it. It’s a risk, but he’ll take it. Only for her.

Every time he thinks of the moment when he finally gets to speak, his chest bursts with the joy of it all. It’s a frustration that he must wait until their games have ended for the day, but it’s only a few hours more, he’ll put her needs first. God knows she’s done that often enough for him.

Rumpled and beautiful, she’s already asleep when he returns from the bathroom, softly breathing with a gentle rise and fall of her shoulders. Molly has earned her rest, she fell so beautifully apart for him. Sleep has eased her pale, pretty face that has been weighed down with he knows not what: One more question to ask when they’ve finished. But Sherlock vows to himself that he’ll give his dying breath easing every worry, every care, from her life.

He curls up beside her and wraps her in his arms. His chest to her back, his lips on her neck he admits quietly to the stillness, “I love you, Molly.”

 


	6. Guilty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: This chapter depicts sexual slavery role-play between consenting adults who love each other to bits (even if they haven't told each other yet).
> 
> Continuation of the scene in chapter 5.

~~~~~~~~~~~

 

“Remove your clothes. Then kneel,” Sherlock tells her from his armchair. His tone is perfectly neutral, but the depth of his voice gives him away. In his right hand is the grip of the crop that’s resting on his thighs. In the other is his slowly filling prick that he idly strokes through his black fine wool trousers, rubbing over the head with his blunt finger nail.

The windows are open, the summer breeze that drifts in to the living room makes the robe Molly’s wearing cling to her, rippling where the wind skims over her body. Wisps of her long hair, worn down this time, catch on the warm air. It’s getting late and the streets are quiet, the setting sun bathes his lover in its bruised light making her glow. She looks ethereal, beautiful. Young. Her head is bowed, but her guileless gold-flecked eyes watch him carefully from beneath her lashes. Sherlock feels the excited knot in his stomach furl and unfurl from the thread of electricity that connects them. He’d have her this way if he could: softly, sweetly, as it is sometimes between them – her robe parted over his thighs as she straddles him, his mouth on her breast, her hands in his hair. But that’s not what she needs from him right now.

He taps the crop on his strong thigh, twice, lets the threat linger for a second or two, “Don’t make me impatient. You have a beautiful body, show it to me.”

Molly’s fingers tremble with anticipation as she pulls the belt of her dressing gown open. She parts it, letting the ivory silk frame her bare breasts; small and soft, tipped with tight, pale pink nipples that heave with excited breaths. The scrap of cloth slips from her shoulders, slowly over the swell of her hips, down slender thighs. An expanse of milky skin is broken only by the pale pink crease below the gentle curve of her belly.

She’s very close. He can smell her skin, see every blemish and scar that makes her so perfectly who she is. He can almost feel the velvet grain of her pubis, the rough pebble of her areola on his lips. He could reach out, touch. But this isn’t for him, he reminds himself. So instead, Sherlock gives his suddenly heavy cock a squeeze, breathing harshly through his nose, his heartbeat thudding a little as it picks up.

Molly smiles and looks at him with dancing eyes that are the picture of questioning innocence, worrying the corner of her lip with the sharp tip of one pearly incisor until it’s carnal red, the blood rushing to the surface of her skin. It’s a look that causes his cock to tingle with a thousand tiny sparks. She plays the part of the innocent virgin so well that he has to remind himself that she’s an experienced woman, not the example of purity that she pretends to be.

Resting on her heels, Molly opens her knees, inviting him to look at her depilated sex. Behind her back, her hands are joined together, fingers intertwined, a curtain of satin soft hair falls over one shoulder, casting shadows on her face.

Molly gasps when his fingers stroke her hair.

“Hush, little one.”

As his fingers tighten in her hair to tilt her head back, the crop in his hand is touched to her cheek and the thrill of it sends a visible shiver down Molly’s spine.

“Do you know who I am?”

“Yes,” Molly replies, eyes demurely cast down but flicking up quickly with a coy bat of lashes, a flirtatious smile – lopsided and cheeky – barely suppressed. The apples of her rosy cheeks swelling with the effort of keeping it from turning into a full blown grin.

“Then say it.” Sherlock pitches his voice low, but can’t disguise his affection, he’s so charmed by her playfulness. _That’s my Molly,_ he thinks, _always a challenge_.

“You are the man who has bought me to use for his pleasure. You are my Master.” Molly’s breathing shudders on the last word, her hands extended, upturned in supplication, her head bowing deferentially. Her smile changes into something a little darker, lustful, and she glances from beneath her lashes once again with a ‘ _dare you’_  look.

Much as he loves the way she brazenly tests him, it’s only one part of the game, so he uses a tone that never fails to make her become as pliant as putty in his hands. “That I am. And you, little one, are my slave.”

From where he sits just a few feet from her kneeling form, Sherlock sees gooseflesh rising on her skin and Molly’s demeanour changes to something softer, more malleable.

“In this house, your place is to serve your Master. Your price was high, but you will repay every penny of it with your service to me. I will be the first to know the pleasure your body can give. That is my right. That is also your honour. Mine will be the first that your virgin body will be made to yield to, but it will not be the last. While you are a slave in my keeping you will serve me by giving pleasure to the men and women of this house who would have you for their use. This you may not refuse, for if you do, you will be bound and beaten by my whip. That way you will remain until every guest in my house has used you in the manner they see fit, having you wherever or whenever they choose. Some may take your mouth, some your backside, others will want screams drawn from your lips. Blood will be drawn from your back for disobedience.”

Sherlock reaches out and draws a fingernail over her tight nipple. Molly’s back arches forward into his hand and she expels through her lips a voiceless puff of air, her eyelids fluttering closed. A pale pink flush creeps over her cheeks and down her slender throat.

“Here child. On your hands and knees.”

By the side of Sherlock’s grey leather armchair stands all but one of the emerald green velvet jewellers’ boxes that he brought back from Germany a few weeks ago, each one containing a piece of the costume that he’d had custom made for Molly’s delicate body. The last of them – the one he can’t stop thinking about – is in the pocket of his blue dressing gown waiting until later, when their games end for the night.

“In this house, you will no longer be permitted to wear clothes. To signify your place, you will wear symbols of your servitude and purpose. Stand, girl.”

From the first box, Sherlock takes two anklets, both made of burnished gold, each embossed with an Art Nouveau design of floral vines. A patina has been added, giving an illusion that the pieces are antique. When he fastens them around her ankles, Sherlock uses only the small clasps and not the locks and chains that remain in their velvet cradles.

Next he takes her wrists, and on to each one fits a cuff with the same floral design. More intricately carved, the cuffs glitter when small white diamonds catch on the sunlight that streams through the windows of the Baker Street flat. As each clasp is closed, Sherlock lifts Molly’s wrist to his lips and kisses the thin skin over her strongly beating pulse. Only then does she seem to notice that the vines curl to form the letter S, and her brows draw together in question, her eyes flicking up to meet his.  

“Because you are mine,” he explains and she goes still, eyes wide. The look of surprise on her face does strange and wonderful things to his heart.

From the largest box he takes a choker, draping it over her swan-like neck and delicate collar bones. The chain is fine gold and has a jewelled butterfly pendant that rests over Molly’s thrumming heartbeat. Dropping from the lower tip of its wings are two threads of gold chain, each ending in a small noose. “These are detachable. I’ll replace them with a suitable alternative once I’ve had you pierced.”   

Sherlock lowers his hot mouth and sucks each delectable little tit to a hard peak, fastening then ends of the chain to her body. “Did the men who came to view you at the auction house touch or just look?”

His fingers leave a trail of shivery skin as they trace a path over her bare breasts. His eyes fix on the fluttering pulse in her throat, and he bends to scrape his teeth over it.

“They touched,” she tells him with effort, her breathing already laboured.

“Where?”

“My- My breasts, between my legs.”

Her Master bites down on her tender flesh, breathing hotly through his nose, “Did you enjoy it?”

She sighs, leaning into him, “It was not for my pleasure but theirs, Master.”

Sherlock pulls her to him, his hands grasping her backside, his cock hard against her belly, and whispers against her ear, “Tell me what they did to you.”

Molly’s hands clutch at his shoulders while he kisses her nape, “The keeper held me while his customers caressed my breasts.”

“Like this?” Between their bodies, he rolls the tip of her breast between his fingers.

His little slave girl sighs, casting her eyes down shyly and says, “Yes.”

“How else did they violate you?”

“My legs were held open and they parted me with their fingers.”

In imitation, Sherlock finds the seam of her body and insinuates a thumb into the already slick valley. Molly wets her lips and turns her head away, offering her neck up to him.

Over the shell of her ear he mouths, an imitation of threat in his voice, “Be truthful, girl, I will know if you dare to lie. Did any of them have you?”

A warm blush spreads out over her skin. Sherlock’s hands are in her hair now, tilting her head back to kiss along her jaw. It’s maddening, this slow easy pace.

“No, Master. I was told I would fetch a higher bid if I was still unused. But the women-” Here she affects a hesitant, modest air “-the other women taught me to kiss and how to touch my Master’s body that I might give him greater enjoyment of mine.”

Closer and closer, she feels him press his body to hers until they are flush together, her hair now wrapped around his fist, his other hand coming to rest at the base of her throat. Sherlock kisses her. It’s urgent, possessive, he uses force to part her lips and slip his tongue into her mouth. Between his legs her words make him pulse and ache.

“Tell me of the things they did to you.”

“My Master,” she breathes between kisses to the skin revealed by the open buttons at the collar of his white shirt, Sherlock humming a sigh when her teeth graze his Adam’s apple. “I was made to give them the use of my mouth and in return they taught me how to sit astride a man and take him inside my body. At night they would come and lie above me, naked, as was I, and with my legs open we would press our bodies together until I had pleased them.”

Sherlock kisses his beautiful, beloved girl until her lips are swollen from his impolite lust. He palms her backside and parts her cheeks, and thrusts his too hard cock against her belly. In the cleft laid open by his hands he pushes a thumb against her rim.

Molly whimpers, her hands pushing him away in protest, but Sherlock wrests her to the floor.

“Do not test me,” he tells her, holding her down as she writhes under him, “I’ve paid for you and I will have you anyway I want, my sweet virgin girl.”

And again he takes her mouth, his body pinning her as he grapples to find her wrists. “I’ll take it from you, if I must, but it will be easier for you to give it. You may even enjoy it, little one.”

But she turns her head away and struggles in his grasp, and for a moment he doubts himself. He asks her, uncertain, “Molly? Your colour.”

Her eyes meet his, and gone is the shy, fearful girl. Instead an impish smile shines up at him, half amused, half impatient, “Green, yes.”

“You’re sure this is what you want?”

She tilts her hips up to his and wriggles her delectable little body, teasing, in a manner that suggests he get on with the business of debauching the innocent slave girl beneath him, “I beg you, my Lord and Master. Have your wicked way with me.”

Their games are always shameless, but this long held fantasy of- of- taking, of having what isn’t given freely is not something she’s ever trusted anyone enough to share. Molly, sweet, wonderful Molly. Though he would have thought it impossible, he loves her all the more for giving this part of herself to him.

When she turns her face away again, he takes her in hand: forcibly taking her chin – pinched between his index finger and thumb, unflinchingly holding her gaze. Breathing heavily, he says, “You will look at me, girl. Or I will punish you. Remember your place in this house. You are nothing but a whore.”

He’s almost dizzy from the way she blushes at his words, the way her eyes flutter closed, how her breathing hitches as though she might sob. He kisses her again, and this time Molly’s lips tremble but open for him.  She blinks slowly, moans in the back of her throat, all the while shyly twisting her wrists as though trying to escape his grip.

Half hard from the moment she let her robe fall to the floor he feels himself completely stiffen from the friction that her body beneath his offers. “Open your legs for me.”

His hand then reaches lower between them, fingers grazing over the damp mound he finds there. Molly’s thighs are slick and quivering around him. Between drenched lips he finds her clit and slips two fingers inside. “Filthy little slut,” he tells her with a salacious smile, kissing his way down to her breasts, “you’re as wet for me as I’m hard for you.”

Sherlock rises to his knees, pulling Molly with him. With a hand at her back he tells her, “Head and shoulders on the seat of my armchair, little one. Hands behind you back, knees spread wide so that I can see your wet pussy while I work.”

Immediately, she obeys, face turned to one side resting on the leather looking more aroused than Sherlock has ever seen her. It occurs to him too that he’s probably more turned on than he’s ever been in his whole life. Molly letting him take control of her pleasure does unbearably wonderful things to him.

On his knees between her open thighs, with just the tips of his fingers, softly he brushes the hair from Molly’s face. “You are perfect. You’re everything I’ve imagined,” he says, hands sweep through her hair to gather it over one shoulder. Her back exposed, his fingertips trace the line of her neck and shoulder blades, bestowing feather-light caresses down the curve of her spine until they reach her hands. Holding her wrists, he fastens the cuffs together and kisses her back with a brush of soft lips.

Sherlock unzips his trousers and lets the line of his bare, stiff cock press against the cleft of Molly’s backside. She mewls pitifully, pushing back against him, but he suppresses the urge to sheath himself in her wet heat and deprives her of contact by pressing her down with a hand on the small of her back. She hums a complaint and for her insolence he slaps the rounded flesh at the top of her thigh.

Into her ear he whispers a threat, “You resisted me, and I can’t allow that. You _will_ obey me, girl.”

A needy moan that dissolves into something more urgent escapes her when he takes himself in hand and nestles his prick between her soaked folds, he grinds his hips against her, and the tip of his cock slides between her legs. “I’m going to whip you. Then I’m going to fuck you.”

“Master, I beg you,” Molly feigns apprehension with a quiet heaving of breath.

“Your pleas will not save you from discipline, girl.”

Sherlock rubs over her backside, warming her up. The first slaps are gentle, but grow firmer with each blow: her arse and thighs are first, but then her dripping cunt and exposed hole are taken in turn, Molly squirms panting soft sounds. The parts of her creamy skin that have been slapped turn pink, then red: a hand drawn blueprint of his desire for her. From time to time he stops to rub his prick and balls, bringing himself close then stopping before it gets to be too much. He waits, watches for the right moment. Her toes curl and scratch at the floor, her bound hands clench, she bites her lip hard enough to bruise the already worried skin.

Still, not just yet.

It’s only when she says, “Please, Sherlock. I’ll do whatever you want, just please,” that he reaches for the crop, doing anything that she asks because he.. he _loves her_ so fucking much. He looks at her then, with so much open tenderness that he’s grateful she can’t see his weakness burning its way out of his skin.

It takes him a moment to make sure his voice is edged with harshness instead of the unadulterated affection that he feels. “Are you a slut for this too? Speak Molly, tell me. Do you want it?”

“Y-Yes Master.”

“Tell me. I want to hear you say it.”

“I need you to discipline me, Master. I need you to own me.” The words come out on hitch, ragged and too eager.

His breathing harsh he stands, backs away, and widens his stance. Unbuttoning his cuffs, he slowly rolls the sleeves of his shirt to the middle of his strong forearms, muscles tensing and flexing as his grip on the crop relaxes then tightens again.

“Ten, Molly. Count.”

A whistling sound as the crop flies through the air is her only warning. Molly cries out sharply as it falls.

“One.”

Sherlock watches the contractions of her body that follow every blow, making his cock twitch in excitement. By the time he reaches ten he’s panting, barely able to stop himself from spreading her open and satisfying the insistent pulsing of his cock.

“What’s your colour?”

“Green, still green. Always, always..” she murmurs.

Breathless, exerted, he pushes a finger inside her swollen cunt, “Did you like it when I punished you?”

Molly’s face burns hotly. Her eyes have closed again, and in a low voice she whispers, “Yes, Sir.”

Withdrawing from her body, he removes his clothes. Slowly he unbuttons his shirt, taking his time, willing himself to calm down because this is for _Molly_ , he has to make it last. His eyes meet hers as she looks at him over her shoulder with a steady gaze laden with possessive lust. He parts his lips for her, telegraphing want and desire, pushing his trousers down to show a long, heavy cock that juts up proudly from a dark vee of neat curls, skin pulled tight across the swollen crimson head, a stream of pre-cum leaking from the flared tip. Behind her, he kneels again, lets her take her fill of him. He smiles at her, content and easy.

“You took that so well, little one. So tender, so soft, but you are strong, aren’t you?” Blunt fingernails drag over the abused skin at the tops of Molly’s legs and backside, and she hisses, the game back on again. “Pain, precious girl, is nothing to fear. Its only purpose is to remind you who you belong to.”

There’s a rapid intake of breath and Molly shudders, emitting small, barely audible pleas to her Master.

“You’re mine now. This,” he shoves his hand between her legs, fingers stroking between wet lips spreading them open, “is mine.” Wrenching Molly backward, his hand wound in her hair, until her back presses to his chest, Sherlock lets his free hand roam over her breasts. Roughly, he pinches and plucks Molly’s nipples, tugging lightly on the chain that hangs between them, causing her to give a gratifying moan.

“Your pleasure and pain is mine.” One hand pushes upward and presses against her throat, and suddenly she’s panting, “The very air you breathe is mine.” Punctuating each word with a hard pinch and twist of her breast, he says, “Do. Not. Forget.”

Her Master pushes her down again, gripping her hip. Sherlock’s fingers probe, explore. As he bends over his little slave girl, his lips press to the corner of her mouth, her cheekbone, then to her temple. He sighs, letting the satin smooth head of his cock breach her. A firm warm hand grips her throat to hold her in place, and Sherlock lowers his lips to her neck. He sucks, bites, but when he turns her head to kiss her lips, his are shockingly gentle. “To think,” he groans, “no one has had you before.”

They kiss again. His hand falls to palm over her breasts. He gropes them, squeezes them hard, and flicks the chain that connects them. When Molly moans into his mouth he can feel the smile on her lips.

Still pulling her hair, he breaks the kiss to order, “Fuck yourself on my cock. Show me how badly you want it.”

It’s difficult: her wrist cuffs are still clipped together, but Molly rolls her hips, sliding along his shaft. Warm breath against her ear whispers that she is a good girl, and Molly sighs in satisfaction when her wet pussy brushes against his balls.

“You’re doing so well,” he praises, breath becoming scarce with an upward push of his hips, inserting his cock as deeply inside of her as he can.

With breasts heaving, she pulls up then impales herself again in a wet slide along his prick. When he reaches lower to play with her clit, Molly bucks against his hand. 

“This is what you want, greedy girl. Look at you, so impatient. Riding my cock and fingers, desperate for it.”

Molly whimpers and arches her back, taking him deeper. His balls slap against her wet cunt, and Master hisses in pleasure when she clenches around him.

“Next time it will be your pretty mouth stretched around my cock,” he gasps, tugging at her hair. “I’m going to teach you Molly. You’ll suck it and thank me for it, because that’s what I’ve paid for. The time after that, I’ll gag you, tie your wrists and ankles to the bed and fuck you. And when I’m done with you every man in London will have his turn.”

Grunting now, his fingers press further into her, “Do you want that?”

“ _Yes_ ,” she cries out breathlessly.

“Then tell me you’re mine.”

But she has no breath to answer, and again he thrusts into her, rocking her back and forth, “ _Say. It_.” He bites out.

“I’m yours,” Molly gasps, getting close, “to do whatever you please with.”

“Come, my pet. Now.”

His permission is all she needs. When he rhythmically pinches her clit Molly comes, shuddering, still writhing on his cock. Her entire body convulses, the cock inside her is gripped by clenching muscles as her Master drives himself deeper, groaning and panting. Sherlock gives a strangled cry when he fills her with his cum, both pulsing together, collapsing onto the armchair in front of them.

Lying on top of her, Sherlock kisses her shoulder, turns her face to kiss her mouth, licking at her parted lips. When he pulls out, his hot release spills from Molly’s body, and he rubs his semen into her skin. His tongue is rough as he licks her hot bruises, his lips tender when he kisses the dimples at the base of her spine.

“You look so beautiful this way,” his lips murmur against the marks he has made on Molly’s skin.

His hands soothe and rub her freed arms back to life, all the while flexing and squeezing her fingers. When he’s finished, he stretches Molly out on the rug before the fireplace.

“Are you all right?” his hands smooth over Molly’s body, they linger with care on the marks left by his crop then move on to touch her glowing face. Tenderly, Sherlock tips her chin up and swipes his thumb over her bottom lip.

“Good,” she purrs, completely blissed out and floating loose. “Really good.”

The old fleur-de-lis cushion is pulled from somewhere behind him, the tartan blanket too. He reaches for her dressing gown, cast aside at the beginning, and covers her against the evening chill in their makeshift lovers’ bed. The lines of worry that had creased her brow are gone, the unhealthy pallor too, and now she’s watching him with clear, curious eyes.

“How did you know?” she asks of his giving to her something she hadn’t told him of.

How did he know? Would it be giving too much of himself away to tell her that when it comes to Molly Hooper he can never reliably deduce anything so instead he was forced to guess? Does it betray his heart to say that he watches her with the interest of a child trying to understand why the stars shine or why the sun rises so that he might learn all the secrets of her heart? Maybe. But the time for reticence has passed. At last he recognises that for what he feels to become _real_   it needs expression.

Sherlock smooths strands of unruly hair away from her face, rolling half on top of her. Cupping her face ever so gently, he decides it’s time. “Because,” he smiles honestly, openly, his voice soft as he rubs her cheek with his thumb, their noses only just touching, his eyes falling shut as Molly runs the flat of her hand along his bicep, his neck, as though in a moment or two she’ll draw him down into a kiss, “for the first time in my life I think more of somebody else than I do of myself.”

Beneath him her shoulders sag a little, as though shocked. “Sherlock,” she says, searching his face with eyes that suddenly shine, looking very much like she might cry.

_Yes_ , he thinks, _now’s the time_. Still smiling softly at her, still nose to nose, he asks, “Can you wait here. For just a second. There’s something I need to say and it’s important I get this right.” The ring, the damn ring is in his dressing gown which is currently lying atop his damn bed, and why – _why?!_ – didn’t he have the forethought to keep it with him.

Molly simply nods, swallowing hard around tears she’s trying hard not to shed. Sherlock scrambles to his feet, his heart pounding out of his chest.

_She knows_ , he thinks, _she’s guessed_. Doesn’t matter anyway; what of it if it’s not a complete surprise to her?

It’s just as he passes into his bedroom that his phone rings. Like squalling babies in a nursery, one sets off the other and from the living room Molly’s chimes too. Sitting on his bed it’s immediately dismissed – _Lestrade, irrelevant_ – in favour of wrapping his dressing gown around himself and searching the pockets. The ring is there. He opens the box to make sure, and palms it into his pocket again.

There’s a moment, a fleeting prickling of his thumbs, that causes him to stop in his tracks at the doorway between his bedroom and the hall.

And then he hears it.

“Matt, hi,” Molly’s hushed voice speaking into her phone says.

The conversation she’s having is unintelligible from this distance, but the tone is unmistakable. His deduction comes to him so clearly that it may as well be written in airborne words materialising all around him.

_Lover_ , the words say. _Liar_.  _Secret._

_Guilty._

Sherlock leans against the jamb, his head gone light, ears buzzing.

How long he’s there he’s not quite sure, but it’s been a while because the flat has gotten darker and his shoulder aches from where the blunt corner of the frame digs into it at an awkward angle.

By the time Molly is walking down the hall toward him shock has turned to something more like anger.

“Everything alright?” she asks, and the words are still there floating around her. That’s she’s turned white and looks beset by some unknown anxiety is irrelevant to him now.

_Guilty._ It hangs over her head like the blade of a guillotine.

In the palm of his hand his fingernails cut four crescent shaped wounds. His jaw twitches.

“Fine.” It comes out curtly. He doesn’t care. Any one of a thousand cruel barbs could have been said instead, he thinks she should count herself lucky that they didn’t.

Molly takes an uncertain step toward him. “Only, you’ve been gone a while..?”

_‘Don’t_ ,’ he wants to say and on instinct backs away from her. “Lestrade called with a case,” he finally manages, damning the shake in his voice. The fire in his lungs is burning up all of the oxygen in the room and it’s getting harder to breathe. “I’m on my way to the Yard now. Best if you leave.”

Sherlock doesn’t wait for further inquiry. He doesn’t particularly want to hear what she has to say anyway. After he slams the bedroom door closed in her pale face he holds himself together long enough to wait until he hears her take the seventeen steps to the street, before rushing to the window to see her walk then run to the end of Baker Street. Old scars on his inner arm begin to itch. But it’s the ring – too heavy in his pocket – that makes him want to claw at his own skin.

In his anger he throws the small box he’s holding into the street and bangs the window shut, berating himself for his stupidity.

Shame fills him at the longing he feels for her to turn around and see him standing there, watching her go.


	7. Containment

He had long ago accepted the fact that one day he would be brought to his knees either by his stubborn pride or his brittle heart. Sherlock was master of neither, and now it seemed he was a servant of both.

Love, he determined, was a promise to pay a terrible price for a bill that only fell due by the debtor’s own hand. It was a submission. A subjugation of the self by a means that could not be counted like the strikes of a whip on pale, unblemished skin or measured in the lowering of a lover’s penitent eyes. Molly Hooper had no need for chains to bring him low, she had accomplished his complete subordination with one word: _Matt_. A pedestrian little name for a, no doubt, pedestrian little man had collapsed into dust every hope and desire he’d held in his heart that somehow he’d be lucky this time, that he too could have what every other savage on this miserable speck of nothing floating in the sea of airless eternity could have with abundant ease.

Once again, Sherlock stands by the living room window and stares into the street, replaying again in his mind’s eye the last glimpse of her he could recall as she ran to the end of Baker Street and disappeared from view. If he’s grown pale again, he doesn’t notice. If his vision blurs and his cheeks feel wet, he will never acknowledge it. Not to himself. Not to anyone. Never again.

He closes his eyes against the image but it refuses to go, so he presses the heel of his hands to his brow so tightly that everything greys and suddenly the picture changes to a windowless room, a coffin standing at its centre. His breath catches sharply in his aching chest.

_I love you._

Sherlock curses aloud, one furious obscenity cast into the silence, yet the memory persists.

 _‘Because it’s true,’_ Molly had said. But that was a lie, wasn’t it?

Molly had loved the _idea_ of him, but when faced with the reality of waking in his bed to find that the cold light of day illuminated his limitations, the ones that had been so cleverly disguised in the darkness of the night before, the love that she had so heartbreakingly professed was little more than a desire to possess something unobtainable. Something that had never truly existed.

There had been something – something different, new, in the way she had looked at him that last time as they lay in front of the fire. Fool that he was, he’d taken it for shock, or maybe even affection. Now, though, he can see it for what it was. Fear.

Fear that he would spill the fragments of his bleeding heart at her feet and make a fool of himself. Fear that she’d have to deflect his immature and awkward advances, or fear that her rejecting him would unleash something in him that she would be unable to contain. How disgusting he must have been to her in that moment.

Yet.

For all his bitterness and self-loathing, the anger (at her, at himself) has begun to ebb away leaving Sherlock with a longing so vast, so deep that at times he forgets how to breathe or how to put one foot in front of the other from the sheer pain of _missing_ her.

In his dressing gown pocket his fingertips follow a path around the curved edges of his phone, and the struggle not to take it out, to read her texts for the sixth (seventh? eight?) time that day begins again.

 

 

Monday 13.47

_John says you’ve finished the case – M_

 

Monday 17:21

_I’m babysitting for Rosie tomorrow. If you wanted to see her I could bring her over – M_

 

Wednesday 10:18

_I have a ganglioglioma if you’re interested – M_

 

Wednesday 10:19

_Not actually me. Well yes, I do have one but it’s not mine. It’s Mr Walpole’s but he’s not using it anymore – M_

 

Wednesday 10:20

_I just mean that you can have it – M_

 

 

Nothing for days, and then:

 

  

Yesterday 13:27

_I’m meeting a friend for drinks tomorrow night. I thought you might like to join us? – M_

 

Sherlock had tried to delete those texts. His thumb had hung over each of them for minutes, but in the end he couldn’t do it.

His jaw twitches and he realises he’s clenching his teeth again. _God_ , he despises how little he understands of what’s happening between them. There’s some dynamic, some game playing out that he doesn’t know the rules to much less how to win. It’s hateful. It’s frightening. But whatever this— thing between them is, Molly doesn’t seem to think it’s over despite the fact that all he was to her was some sort of—of— _fuck buddy_ (one of at least two, by his reckoning).

Distractedly, he pulls the phone out and stares at the dark screen. Curses himself again but holds it, the brushed steel hot in his hand.

He’s not a work colleague, Bart’s directory doesn’t list a Matt or any variation of that name, nor is he a neighbour. The tracker on her phone (Mycroft, not Sherlock, he has some dignity still left) shows that she hasn’t left her flat other than the usual round trip from and to work via Waitrose, only deviating every few days to visit John (Rosie, to be precise) and the Indian she likes just off the High Street. No visitors either, not if Wiggins and his band of irregulars are to be believed. Sherlock’s gone over the last five years of her social media and can’t find a trace of the mystery man: whether he feels unsettled or relieved by that, he isn’t quite sure.

It had taken twelve tormented days for Molly to send that first text. The tissue sample was an olive branch, but meeting her friends meant something more, surely? Even if she and Sherlock weren’t a couple – not by any definition of the word as he understands it – that was the kind of thing _couples_ did, wasn’t it? (Not the one’s he’d been part of, _obviously_ , but Molly would expect that sort of thing, wouldn’t she? The introduction to friends (her message stating singular rather than plural so probably Meena) and – _God forbid_ – family?) It occurs to him that maybe this is an olive branch of a different sort. (But then it also occurs to him to wonder if _Matt_ has met her friends. Does she take _their_ goddaughter over to _his_ place when she’s babysitting? Is there a set of _his_ pyjamas in her airing cupboard? Or a box under his bed where he keeps the toys they use playing beautiful games together?)

A cynical voice that he recognises as his own, using words spoken long ago, counsels that he’s grasping at straws, reading into signs that aren’t there. _Sentiment,_ it says, _is a chemical defect found in the losing side._ But. In these last, lonely days he had come to realise that incarnation of Sherlock Holmes had died countless months ago. It had bled out on an aquarium floor, dying along with a friend who had given her life to save his, thus conferring on it a value that he is obligated to be worthy of.

She had said these words: _‘Being Mary Watson was the only life worth living.’_

And now he knows the truth in it. Being by Molly’s side – in any way that she’ll allow – is the only thing that can make his life worth living.

Because – _just ask John Watson_ – something, _anything_ , is better than nothing at all.

It’s not that he’s forgiven her for breaking his heart, only that he knows being without her won’t ever allow it to heal. There’s nothing he can do about that, she is Mistress of that organ, it is a fait accompli, out of his hands now and in the lap of the Gods. But his pride? His pride he can yet conquer. So he breathes. In and out. In and out. And with shaking fingers types:

 

 

Today 11:54

_Yes. Where? – SH_

 

 

The home button is pressed every time the phone’s screen goes dark, he even checks the silent switch to be sure the volume is turned up. He puts it down on the table. Turns it over. Picks it back up again. The interminable forty two second wait for her response almost drives him crazy, and it occurs to him then that he’s probably never felt as alone in his entire life – not while he was away from London, not even the week he spent in solitary – as he does when he’s without her.

 

 

Today 11:55

_Okay. The club is in town, I’ll pick you up at 9 – M_

 

 

His heart skips a beat and he’s still staring at the text message, smiling, when the second one comes.

 

 

Today 11:55

_Wear your black shirt. You look scrummy in it – M_

 

 

He can’t help it, he laughs and the ache in his chest begins to ease. He’s even half tempted to text her back with a smiley face.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~

 

The first sight of her in two weeks takes his breath away.

Dressing up isn’t something Molly Hooper does very often, and even on those rare occasions when she tries, it always results in a brightly coloured (usually floral) assault on the senses.

Not tonight.

In the dimly lit back seat of a limousine, Molly sits with one leg draped over the other. A shiny black patent stiletto that reflects the streetlamps lining Baker Street covers her petite foot. From there his eyes are drawn up her bare leg to a milky, satin soft thigh, barely covered by a short, black, sleeveless dress that hugs her hips and breasts. Cut low, the lace edges of a balcony bra are just about visible underneath the bodice, Molly’s nipples – hard – are visible through the thin silk. Falling over one eye, her hair is a mess of carefully dishevelled soft, loose curls. Barely there makeup shows off her fair complexion, but skilfully applied red lipstick and black mascara, highlight her delicate features. On her wrist there’s a heavy gold cuff; it glints and gleams, just like the flecks in her cognac coloured eyes.

“Where are we going?” The sound of his voice is rougher than he expected, and his prick is half hard from just looking at her.

Oddly tentative, she says, “A little club I know.”

“Oh?”

“You’ll just have to trust me.”

Molly leans over to kiss him. It’s dirty. Sexy. She keeps her eyes open, trained on the driver. _Is that her game?_ He’s nothing if not a conscientious companion, so he’ll happily play along. Sherlock puts his hand on her knee and whispers with his mouth on her ear, “Take your knickers off and hand them over.”

“Sherlock?” Molly’s eyes flit to the driver who seems to have decided that the conversation of a thirty-something respectable looking couple isn’t worth his attention.

“You want to please me, don’t you?”

Her voice is quiet, deferential, “Yes.”

“Then do as I say. _Now_. Don’t dilly-dally.”

Her eyes flash with lust as she glances again at their chauffer. “He might see.”

“That’s a risk you’ll have to take.” Though it’s a negligible one – the driver is too preoccupied with how to hide his gambling habit and a secret child from his wife – but Sherlock elects not to tell Molly that. Instead, his fingertips push beneath the hem of her dress playfully grazing along the bare inside of her thigh; he watches her shiver as Molly lets her eyes fall closed only to open again, glittering: she looks astonishingly beautiful in the darkness that presses against the car’s windows. Sherlock pinches – hard – that tender flesh beneath his fingers, and Molly gasps a surprised breath. Whatever else is playing out between them, of one thing he is certain: she _will_ obey when he gives her an order. His voice, deliberately steely, tells her, “That wasn’t meant to be a polite suggestion. Get on with it.”

As discretely as she can Molly submits to his instruction, uncrossing her legs and slipping her underwear off, Sherlock’s mercury coloured eyes dragging over her breasts and lips, his hand extended waiting for his prize.

“Good girl,” he mouths stuffing the discarded lingerie into his pocket. “Spread your legs. Touch yourself. Make it too obvious and you’ll go ever my knee.”

“Promises, promises,” she has the gall to stick out her tongue, arching one carefully groomed eyebrow his way earning herself another pinch that makes her squeak then laugh, a soft tinkling sound that Sherlock adores. Molly’s hand joins Sherlock’s between her legs, pushing her fingers into already damp flesh.

Her left – and so far unoccupied hand – squeezes the top of Sherlock’s thigh and he huffs a breath through his nose, his hips twitching. He tsks, “Minx,” and pushes her knees further apart, stroking ever higher until he can curl two fingers inside her. Molly’s back arches causing her breasts to pull loose from her bra just enough that Sherlock can see the dark rounded edge of her areola. His mouth waters at the sight of her choking back gasps as he strokes. “You’re dripping wet, little girl, spread it with your fingers, get yourself good and slick.”

Molly croons her lover’s name and drops her head onto his shoulder, her hair falling over her face. The driver glances at them and his eyes meet Sherlock’s in the mirror, but Sherlock shields her from view, slanting his body so that only his back is visible. Their driver takes the hint and quickly decides it’s best to keep his eyes on the road so raises the partition between him and his misjudged passengers.

Sherlock runs a leisurely finger over the swell of her breasts, up her arched neck, and silences her with a kiss. She kisses back tenderly. At first sighing a little, Molly moans softly in the back of her throat as gradually it gets more and more heated. Her fingertips rub back and forth over her clit, his hook to caresses the inner walls of her wet slit; she retaliates by dragging a fingernail along the swelling ridge of his hard cock. Molly swallows the sounds he makes when she lightly pinches the head, causing it to seep. It’s uncomfortable being this hard, but he ignores his own body’s needs in favour of worshipping the woman he’s missed so desperately.

But she’s resisting, not quite in the right frame of mind just yet. Sherlock’s breath is hot over her neck, “You want it, don’t pretend you don’t. And just to prove I’m right, I’m going to count to ten and if you haven’t come by then I’m going to have you suck me off right here in the back of the car and you can go without for the rest of the night-”

 _“Sherlock,”_ she whines, half complaining, half thrilled by the idea.

“-no knickers and soaking wet between your legs, you won’t be able to think of anything except getting my cock inside you. Ready?”

“ _Fuck_..” she only just manages to say when he drags his teeth over her carotid pulse.

Sherlock smiles against her neck, “One.”

The fabric of Molly’s dress swishes softly as Sherlock fingers her, scissoring her open. He speeds up, faster, rougher. The feather light touches are replaced with something more urgent, and he can feel Molly’s desperation: her eyes screwed tightly shut in concentration, biting down on her lip as she chases her orgasm, pressing the heel of her hand to her clit.

Sherlock dips his head, his mouth grazing the top of her mostly exposed breast. His breath is tickling-hot on her skin, “Ask me nicely and I’ll play with your tits to help you along. Two.”

Molly wriggles against his hand. “ _Please_..”

“Three. You can do better than that,” he says, nipping at her skin.

She huffs in frustration and Sherlock relishes the little sound. “Four.” Then he asks, “Please what?”

“Please, _Sir_ -”

Static electricity buzzes along his spine, his cock tingles. If only she knew the things she did to him with that one little word, made all the more arousing because he knows that – on some level – it debases her to say it.

“-I need your mouth.” Her hand clutches the top of his leg blindly, and Sherlock shifts his hips forward to the edge of the seat, just one or two inches is enough that his knees splay wider and Molly’s hand can squeeze his balls.

“Five,” he says lowering his mouth, his lips sucking on her nipple finally freeing it from her dress. He’s a clever man at the best of times, but when it comes to doing _this_ with Molly he lives up to his reputation as a genius. That wicked tongue of his circles and flicks the hard flesh. Molly oozes a moan.

“Six,” he says against her breast, deliberately hissing on the S to create a vibration, and her body finally begins to give into the sensation.

“Oh God. Yes. That.”

Sherlock twists his fingers, licks her breast. “Seven. Best be quick about it, time’s running out.”

She’s getting close; he feels her belly clench, her legs tremble. Arousal surges and he imagines the phantom tightening of her body around his cock as he drives deeper. “Eight.”

“Sherlock..” The movements of her hands have gotten more erratic, and she grinds down onto his palm. Though she’s trying hard to control her breathing, by now she’s gasping, sobbing.

He never reaches nine. Molly comes with Sherlock suckling her nipple, his index and middle fingers stroking, hooking, twisting.. His cock throbs in time with her gasps but there’s nothing he can do about that now because the town car has already reached its destination.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Housed in a handsome period building on a street lined with elegant facades, the club doesn’t have a name. He knows of it, of course. There was a time, when he was younger, not as careful or sober as he is now.. Times when he indulged every vice. Times when he allowed others to— to—

Well, there’s no point dwelling on that, those days are in the past.

It’s members only, exclusive, discreet, very, _very_ expensive – and entirely outside of Molly’s not inconsiderable means. And as she watches him bound up the steps of the Georgian mansion to follow where she’s led there’s hesitance mixed with something he doesn’t understand in her eyes. It’s caution, he thinks, she’s nervous. That alone would be enough to put him on guard, but when it’s added to where they are, and why they might be there.. When she takes his hand and pulls him inside, his heart is practically pounding out of his chest with dread.

“We’re Matthew Turner’s guests,” Molly announces to the elegant hostess who smiles, takes their coats and phones, then leads them along a long, dimly lit corridor to the club’s bar. There’s a dull thud of dance music, not loud exactly, but enough to mostly cover the sounds from the locked doors they pass along the way.

 _Oh God. Oh no._ _Meeting a friend meeting a friend meeting a friend.._ Matthew. _Matt_. Sherlock’s stomach plunges and he stares at her blankly for a shade too long to be considered polite.

“Who is Mathew Turner?” Sherlock stoops and whispers in her ear, his blood running about four degrees cooler than it was ten seconds ago as it drains from his face.

“Just someone I knew at Uni. He’s a cardiologist at Guy’s now.” Molly squeezes his hand but looks away. “Oh! We’re here!”

They make their way through clusters of patrons who stand here and there, scanning the room for opportunities. When they reach a private booth, the hostess summons a waitress, who, without taking a drinks order, places a bottle of Bollinger and three glasses on the table; _With Mr Turner’s compliments,_ they’re told.

The answer to exactly who Mr Tuner is and why they’re here becomes apparent as Sherlock takes in his surroundings. It wouldn’t take anywhere near his deductive ability to figure it out.

Occupying quiet corners and curtained booths, on plush red velvet sofas that edge a small dancefloor, are couples and small groups. All are still fully clothed, the club rules don’t allow nudity or sex acts in what it considers the public area; there’s a private bar downstairs _–_ no guests allowed _–_ for members who wish to see and be seen. For those who prefer a more discreet setting for their couplings, there are bedrooms upstairs. Fully equipped to cater for most proclivities, guests may use the rooms when accompanied by one of the club’s elite clientele.

Whatever Molly has planned for tonight, it’s safe to say they won’t be doing it alone. The thought has no sooner formed in his head when he notices the man approaching them.

Tall, and inch or two more than Sherlock, Matthew is dressed in a slim-fitting and fashionable blue checked suit. Slender, lightly muscled with a broad chest and shoulders, his smile is vibrant and warm. High cheekbones grace a handsome face, his skin is tanned, and his gait is confident and smooth. Matt is beautiful, stunning even. He has film star good looks and he knows it, but the knowledge comes off as confidence instead of arrogance and he’s all the more attractive for it. It’s obvious Matt trades on his personality more than his appearance, something that Sherlock admires and is envious of all at once. On a thousand nights in a hundred bars, before Sherlock fell in love with Molly, he would have been on his knees, half undressed in front of this man by now. Matthew is exactly Sherlock’s type. _Was_ , he mentally corrects, _Was_ his type. Molly has chosen well. He finds that he has to make a point of not staring.

Matt, however, makes no such concession and lets his gaze brush over Sherlock, head to toe and all the way back up again.

Piercing and intelligent blue eyes glitter with genuine fondness when he looks at Molly, who strokes his dark blond curls and gently kisses his full, pink lips. They share a look: it’s familiar, comfortable. Open and trusting. It bears no resemblance to the way Molly’s been looking at Sherlock these last months.

“Matt,” she beams a little too brightly, looking momentarily tense (just a flash, then it’s gone, but he sees it all the same). “This is my friend, Sherlock.”

“Oh, at last!” He clasps Sherlock’s hand between both of his, fingertips glancing off the thin skin of the detective’s wrist, smiling at him, open and inviting. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

“Have you really?” Sherlock carefully closes down every expression his face is trying to make. When he turns to look at Molly her cheeks have blushed pink. She’s still smiling but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “You must forgive me,” continues Sherlock, allowing a moment of what he hopes is an awkward silence, “I’ve heard nothing about you.”

“Then we should rectify that,” Matt tells him in a dulcet, raspy tone: he’s all easy charm, and sexy smiles that light up his handsome face. His eyes flit to Molly’s (a gesture of conspiratorial reassurance, Sherlock thinks) but lock on the detective’s trying to convey something that he doesn’t quite understand.. interest, maybe, or intent. No. It’s.. kinder than that. Softer. A little concerned. Questioning.

Sherlock finds that he can’t help but return his stare, his heart pounding so loudly in his ears that he can’t tell the difference between it and the music anymore.

When Matt sits beside him theirs knees bump together and tiny sparks ignite, shooting straight to Sherlock’s prick.

They drink, and the champagne refills without being ordered. Molly and her.. _friend_ catch up on news of old classmates, and tell Sherlock stories about the follies of their youth.

Matt is overtly flirtatious with both his guests who’ve now each had three or four glasses of a very expensive vintage, and Sherlock’s racing mind has started to slow even as his heart rate picks up. All the while the mood between the three has a curious energy that’s becoming more and more sexually charged as the minutes tick by. In any given situation Sherlock hears and sees everything, but this is knowing on another level, he’s just so _aware_ of the man sitting beside him. It doesn’t take much to get him back to the state he was in during the limo ride on their way to the club. From time to time the blond rests his hand on Sherlock leg as he speaks: the gesture is unashamedly forward and again Sherlock thinks that a few months ago he could have so easily fallen to his knees before this man – they’d be in bed by now, Sherlock begging to be held down and fucked open. And, _oh God,_ the thought of it..

It’s been a long time since he has been with a man, but what really gets his cock interested in proceedings is the idea of being forced to submit to someone, something he hasn’t needed in a very long time, but still the desire is there, usually dormant, less so now. It’s then that his train of thought is completely derailed by an imagined image of Molly taking control of him, meting out his pleasure and pain.

As though she can read his mind, her hand begins to mirror Matt’s movements as they both start to stroke along Sherlock’s inner thighs that have spread open reflexively, inviting them to touch higher and higher..

Under the table their hands massage Sherlock’s cock to full hardness, but their intimate little ménage is interrupted by a woman of about 25 (beautiful, dominant, not Molly so not relevant) asking if she can join them. While Matt politely dismisses her, Sherlock watches the room over his shoulder. Heavy petting, kissing; groups of twos and threes drift to and from the bar as things get more amorous between them. One couple _–_ married, professionals, 40’s, wife with undiagnosed arrhythmia _–_ take a mixed party of three with them to the member’s only lounge; they’re already undressing as they pass through the door that leads there. The idea of what’s happening beyond their view makes his already hard prick twitch. And as strange as tonight’s turn of events has been, Sherlock finds that he’s curious and more than a little aroused by thinking about what Molly may want, even if it is edged with the ever present undercurrent of jealousy and hurt that she needed someone else involved to have it.

Matt, following Sherlock’s line of sight to the parting group, looks to Molly who steadily meets his eye.

“May I kiss you, Sherlock?”

It’s expected in these circles to not only ask, but to wait until permission is given. Clearly Matt already has Molly’s consent to approach her.. her _what_ exactly has never been defined between them. Lover, perhaps? Booty call? That seems closer to it based on what’s happened since they arrived at the club. But Matt doesn’t wait for an explicit answer, instead he accepts Sherlock’s head nodding of its own accord as acquiescence. When Matt leans in to take a soft kiss from him, Sherlock’s eyelids flutter closed.

A caress of lips, perfectly harmless except for the fact that it isn’t. Nor can Sherlock honestly say it’s entirely unwelcome, so he goes along with it, opens under the barely there pressure and holds his breath. Firmer than Molly’s kisses, yet ever so gentle, explorative, tentative, the maleness of Matt – the strength in his hands on Sherlock’s neck as he guides the kiss, the smell of his shaving soap and the hint of five o’clock shadow that gives a roughness to their meeting of lips – is exciting sense memories that have lain buried for years. His belly tightens and ripples when Matt lays a hand on his chest and touches his nipple through the fabric of his shirt causing it to stiffen, almost painfully so. _Fuck_.

“Try to relax,” Matt hums against his cheek, kissing him again (not the way he remembers kissing a man, but softer, gentler) as his fingers trail over Sherlock’s abdomen and under his suit jacket, where his thumb rubs circles into Sherlock’s hip. And then Molly’s lips press lightly to the side of his neck, the breath from her nose hot and damp against the sensitive skin, while between his legs she cups him, squeezing in an agonisingly slow, gentle rhythm, Sherlock moaning breathily into Matt’s mouth when Molly touches him in a place that feels especially good.   

“Now that we’ve gotten to know each other a bit better,” Matt says, pulling back from a dazed and confused Sherlock, his thumb dipping beneath the waistband of his trousers, “I was wondering if you’d both like to join me upstairs. I’ve reserved one of the private rooms; perhaps we could have another drink? Get more comfortable and see where the night takes us?”

Molly kisses Sherlock sweetly on the corner of his mouth, precisely where Matt’s lips where just a moment ago. She lingers for what feels like an eternity, drawing his bottom lip into her mouth in that way she does that makes him go weak at the knees and, _Oh God_ , his brain is buffering, she’s just so fucking deliciously good with her hands on his hip, in his hair, kissing him with earned knowledge of what he likes and how to please him. Her kisses don’t question, they answer. His tongue meets hers and she purrs, velvety, wantonly; it takes his breath away like nothing else that’s come before her has. And why, oh why, has Molly not thought to open his trousers, take his cock out and fist it until he comes over her hand.. It feels as if- as if he is floating, lost in the sensation of the strong, masculine hands that have begun to take liberties with his body, and the tender, feminine ones that take a proprietary path over every one of his erogenous zones that they can reach.

Does he want this?

He wants Molly. _He wants her, he wants her, he wants her.._ But from the way Molly and Matt have been looking at each other all evening, Sherlock suspects that if he tries to back out they’ll carry on without him. Wouldn’t it be better to put himself, his body, between them? He wants to take Molly upstairs, and – if it’s what she really wants – maybe take someone with them, someone who’s completely disposable and instantly forgotten, even though he hasn’t had sex with a stranger in over a decade not since- well, not since the cocaine fuelled good times turned into cocaine _and_ heroin fuelled bad times – times when he’d done things that he’d really rather not think about now. That all being irrelevant anyway because that’s not what’s on offer, and he’s not sure if it’s a good idea to go to bed with a man they’re both attracted to. Because the truth is, while the whole evening has been erotically charged, and Sherlock is interested to see what would happen, he’s not all that sure he _wants_ to see what would happen.

She’s not his as he is hers, she’s made that clear, even if he hasn’t really accepted it yet, but that doesn’t mean he’s okay with her being with someone else _–_ or, for that matter, he doesn’t know that _he_ can be with anyone else, if that’s what she has in mind. And because he’s so much in love with her, if he goes upstairs, if he sees her wanting, enjoying another man, he’s not too sure he’ll be able to handle it.

There are a hundred and one emotions – _feelings_ – bubbling up inside of him, all screaming for attention. There’s arousal and curiosity, but there’s frustration, anger too. And how is it possible, he wonders, to feel so lonely when you’re in the midst of a crowd, like he is now. It hurts, really fucking hurts, that she doesn’t want him the same way he wants her. But. Mostly there’s love. Love for her, heartbreak hand in hand with it because he’s alone in this. He’s almost shaking just thinking about who Molly would choose if he forced her to, he or Matt. And, frankly, he doesn’t fancy his chances against the better looking, more engaging man who has an almost twenty year history with her. Because even though he loves her – and as good as told her so the last time they were together – when it’s obvious his rival doesn’t, it seems to be a non-issue right now. Meaning he’s left with a simple choice: have Molly on her terms or not at all.

“What do you say?” Molly asks, expectant, even though she looks a little unsure. “You can do whatever you like. You’re in control of this.”

Sherlock almost laughs; nothing has ever been said that was more untrue.


	8. Three: Part I

**_Author’s Note:_** _I’d written two very different scenarios for this scene and it’s not an exaggeration to say that I’ve lost sleep over which to use. Try to remember that when you feel the urge to kill me. Parts I & II of ‘Three’ are rife with consent issues, and I’m erring on the side of caution and flagging them as dubcon. _

 

~~~~~~~~~~~

 

From the very first time that Sherlock had taken her to his bed, Molly had known that his interest came complete with an armed kill switch.

There had been moments, fleeting though they were, like the ones at Mycroft’s party when he’d been so tender, so open, and then two weeks ago on the floor of Baker Street when he’d said such lovey things.

And foolishly, she had hoped.

Certainly he’d shown signs of a waning enthusiasm for her: the sudden end to  _that_  night at Baker Street when Lestrade had offered him something infinitely more interesting to do, unanswered messages, his constant mentions during their most intimate moments of his desire to see her taken by other men… But tonight he had demonstrated that even in her presence he was unable to disguise his interest in – his  _attraction_ to – another. 

Matt and she had a history. She trusted him. And if Sherlock’s own particular kink was to share his lovers with other men, Molly could show him that she was willing. Willing to facilitate his fantasies, his predilections and needs. Show him that having what he wanted didn’t have to mean looking for it alone. Stupidly, she thought that if she gave that to him, if she could show that she had more to offer than just herself, then maybe he’d see her as something other than a convenient fuck who provided a warm bed and unlimited lab access on alternating days of the week. 

But. As hard as she’d tried to just let go and give herself over to his needs, she couldn’t. She couldn’t face being shared with a stranger while Sherlock sat impassively by letting God knows who do God knows what to her. So she had done what she found she could and taken matters into her own hands, fooling herself into thinking that she would be okay with it if she chose what would happen and with who: giving him what he needed and hoping he understood her acceptance of his limitations, that he didn’t need to seek his thrills elsewhere or without her. 

Of course it had crossed her mind –  _of course it had_  – that he’d wanted something else entirely. She’d even reluctantly discussed those possibilities with Matt.

It had been one thing to wonder, but it was quite another to see him looking at someone with such obvious attraction, such obvious lust — to see him  _wanting_  things that she could never be. 

_Finding them_ , she corrected.  _Finding them_. 

_Had there been others all along?_  She wondered.  _Other men? Ones that he gave himself to in ways that he never could with her?_

_Had he submitted to them?_

Her stomach rolls spectacularly, and Molly braces herself, bent over, arms outstretched against the bathroom sink.

And she’d done it all. Broken her own heart and brought her hopes crashing down around her ears as they drank champagne and shared tentative first kisses. Now, it was so glaringly obvious: Sherlock had never wanted to share  _her_  with other men.  _No_. He wanted  _that_  for himself. 

Hot, stinging tears prickle at the corners of her eyes. Beyond the bathroom door, in the bedroom, they’re waiting for her. Suddenly, Molly feels the full weight of her mistakes. Not just tonight’s, but all of them.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~

 

After the pounding bass and public spaces of the bar below, room 14 is designed to be an oasis of calm. 

It’s decadent. Comfortable. Dominated by a large cube style four poster bed – its black lacquered wood contrasting sharply with the crisp white sheets that dress it – sturdy hooks and eyelets for restraints are fixed inconspicuously to the frame. Velvet sofas, amethyst, face each other over an ottoman that’s higher on one end than the other – D ring attachments fixed to each of the four turned wooden legs. There are flickering candles on a sideboard next to the ice bucket that holds two bottles of Bollinger. To the left of the bed, a Rococo framed mirror stands against the wall, reflecting the warm light of sparkling crystal chandeliers. The few overt concessions to the kinds of trysts that take place in these rooms do nothing to diminish that the club is more boutique hotel than the knocking shop kitsch of the East End clubs that Sherlock remembers from his youth.

He should feel more relaxed, but he doesn’t. Those sensual kisses in the bar, those hands on him, the eroticism of a promised  _more_ , have left him simmering with an undefined bright energy. The crackling tension that sparked between he and Matt is louder, more obvious now that there are fewer distractions to dampen it.

It’s ridiculous, he knows, a grown man, experienced –  _very experienced_  – vibrating with the nervousness of a virgin facing their imminent defilement. 

Matt, his long limbs looking so much leaner now that his jacket and waistcoat have been discarded, stands by the side board undoing the top two buttons of his shirt. His neck is elegant, the skin there paler than that of his face, and there’s the barest hint of blond hair on his chest. The line of his back, the curve of his thighs, both are perfect, the firm swell of his backside makes Sherlock’s mouth go dry.

“Hasn’t anyone ever told you that it’s rude to stare?” Matt offers a glass of champagne to Sherlock. His eyes twinkle and travel the length of Sherlock’s body – lingering, speculative – one corner of his mouth curling up.

“Frequently.” There's an unintentional rumble in his voice. Nerves. Excitement, maybe. Hard to tell one from the other now. Neither state improved by the brush of their fingers as Sherlock takes the glass from his hand.

“Not that I mind. I spend five hours a week in the gym, someone should appreciate the effort.” He smiles then, that beautiful film star smile that makes his china blue eyes even bluer, his cheeks dimpling he reaches out to brush a curl from Sherlock’s temple, cutting the distance between them in two. “Though I’d imagine you’re more accustomed to being the one who’s stared at.” His hand sinks into Sherlock’s hair. His voice is pure sex. “You’re quite beautiful.”

Sherlock swallows. Hard.

What distance there was between them becomes non-existent, and those two inches in height that Matt has on him make Sherlock feel as though, tactically, he’s lost the advantage his physicality usually affords him. Matt’s fingers scratch a little at Sherlock’s scalp, his gaze flitting down to the bow of Sherlock’s lips. He’s practically salivating.

“Molly tells me you switch.”

Molly. For the briefest of moments he could have imagined that this thing between he and Matt is some replay of those anonymous dalliances he’d indulged in so very long ago. Before… Before. But now he is reminded that the woman he’d given his fearful heart to (the only one he’d ever given his heart to) had made more of her curiosity about his past than she had of the sacrifice he had made in laying himself before her, open and bleeding. 

_So her intent was to see him submit to this man?_

Anger is tempered by relief. If she intends to share him, then at least he won’t have to share her. Even so, there are lines. 

“Never with strangers.”

“Mm.” Matt’s eyes smoulder, his voice richly dense. He drags his fingertips down Sherlock’s neck, “That, my darling, is a pity. I would so have loved to see your flawless skin marked by my whip.”

His touch, his words, they cause Sherlock to pant anxious little breaths that he hopes are mistaken for excitement.

_It wouldn’t be entirely, not exactly, incorrect to make that assumption he realises as Matt’s soft lips brush over his._

His glass is taken, set aside with Matt’s own, and hands find their way under his jacket, stroking down, lower, lower. 

Their lips gently brush again and Matt sucks in a ragged breath. “You’d make me work for it, wouldn’t you? I’d wager you come apart slowly. Piece by piece. Not all at once. That Dominant streak of yours is a mile wide, but that would only make your submission more worth the earning.”

Sherlock feels the swollen ridge of Matt’s erection press into his hip. His own strains uncomfortably against the placket of his trousers. They kiss again, softly, and Matt brings his lips to a sensitive spot on Sherlock’s corded neck. It makes his knees go weak, and it’s an effort to stay standing – made all the more difficult by the hand lightly caressing Sherlock’s swollen shaft through his trousers. 

Something devilish flashes in those bluer than blue fuck-me eyes and Matt’s voice drops to a deep register, his words laden with an implicit offer, “You like it rough, don’t you? Kept on the edge while someone takes their satisfaction from you. I’d strap you down. Cage your cock and whip your arse until you screamed—”

Sherlock shivers.

“—When was the last time someone fucked you bareback? Do you remember how good it feels to have a cock pumping into you with nothing between you and another man’s skin?”

His fists ball in Matt’s shirt.

“I bet you’ve got a filthy mouth on you. Those lips,” Matt traces the dark edges with his finger, “they’re made for sucking cock.”

Respondent conditioning: memories of hard floors under his knees, his face reddening in the shape of a stinging hand print, rigid flesh on his tongue, salt in his throat. Sherlock’s mouth waters.

There’s a long pause where they stay that way, letting the heat build, the only sound is that of jagged breathing.

But then— 

Matt takes a deep breath against Sherlock’s lips, putting his hand on his would-be lover’s cheek. His eyes are hooded, his voice half gone with desire, “Tell me what you need.” 

Sherlock can’t speak. Can’t breathe. Their lips meet only to part, their tongues touch. It’s astonishingly gentle despite Matt’s lewd words. There’s an incendiary spark in Sherlock’s gut when their cocks, still clothed, touch. That familiar/unfamiliar hardness flooding him with sense memories of the other men he has taken and been taken by. Matt’s hands: on his neck, in his hair, grabbing, pulling at his tender scalp so hard that Sherlock almost falls to his knees.

Matt breathes Sherlock’s own name into his mouth as they kiss. Tongue seeking tongue, hands grasping greedily, whatever reserve they had managed to affect in their first touches has left them and their curiosity turns now into ferocity. Heat. Passion. Pressure building low in both their bellies. With a growl, Matt pushes Sherlock onto the sofa, pins him with his long limbs and strong hands. Ruts into him. Once. Twice. And Sherlock feels blood pounding in his ears, rushing, roaring. Then there’s a hand inside his shirt pulling it from his trousers as Matt explores. Cool air, dry palms. Warm, competent fingers gripping his waist as his legs are nudged apart, a thigh insinuated between them. Matt’s stiff prick pressing against Sherlock’s perineum: Sherlock’s legs falling wider apart of their own volition.  

“Say it,” Matt demands. “Ask me for it.”

Sherlock looks up at him then: his heated cheeks and neck are pink, his lips swollen from Sherlock’s kisses, his lovely eyes soft beneath their golden lashes. The scent of him woody and dark, the feel of him new and dangerous. 

He could say it, and mean it too. He could put his body between Molly’s and Matt’s.  _The transport,_  he reminds himself,  _is infinitely less brittle than a human heart._

All in one exhalation of held breath, the words are out before he can think about what he’s saying. “Fuck me.”

“Sherlock,” Matt groans, pressing his tongue between Sherlock’s lips, so, so curiously erotic in its tenderness. “Yes. God yes.”

He ignores his heart as it tries to rail against that languid kiss and instead reduces his every thought to the carnality of it, the sheer want in a new lover’s touch. Images flood Sherlock’s mind of being pressed into, hard, teased and left wanting, his focus narrowing down to just one point and the feeling of something moving inside him, possessive hands using him as they wish.

His eyelids flutter closed. 

Their kiss becomes brutal. Searing. Their legs, interlocked, shift and Sherlock bends one knee, arches up so that they are touching from tip to toe. He tilts his head, exposing an expanse of flushed throat that Matt bows his head to kiss, undoing the button at the collar of Sherlock’s shirt, spreading the cloth wide with his palm as it drags down the pale skin.

Fingers slide into those inky black curls, tugging at them in a way that makes Sherlock huff aborted breaths down through his nose as he licks at a patch of Matt’s skin, tanned and freckled by sun.

Matt’s voice is a broken husk. “You’ve always liked to watch.”

For a moment Sherlock doesn’t understand that the words aren’t meant for him at all, but rather Molly who is standing in the bathroom doorway, her eyes wide and shimmering, staring at the tangle of long limbs on the sofa, her cheeks mottled, her lips tight. A look of..  _hurt_ is blinked away before it fully forms.

There’s a heat now, creeping up his neck. An embarrassment – no,  _guilt_  – at being caught by her in a moment of exposed weakness. Anger, again. Ridiculous, impotent anger at Molly for making him feel this way when she was the one who engineered this little ménage in the first place. 

Yet.

Despite that (or perhaps because of it) his heart beats uncomfortably in his throat. It hurts in a way he never imagined possible.

Not for the first time is his mind a confused, conflicted tangle of thoughts and desires that he hasn’t the inclination to examine under the scrutiny of a stranger, or Molly who through her actions has proved herself to be just as much an unknown quantity to him.

Molly, stock-still, continues to watch them, struggling to find her voice.

_At least he’s not the only one thrown_ , Sherlock thinks with a sour satisfaction that’s tainted by thousands of complicated emotions that he doesn’t understand much less know how to deal with, reminding him that while he may be no virgin there are still precious things that would cost him too much to lose. 

“Molly,” Matt says hauling himself and Sherlock upright on the sofa, flashing a brilliant, genuine smile. He extends a hand to beckon her near. 

 

 

 

For what feels like an eternity, Molly can’t move a single muscle. 

Standing at the bathroom doorway, she had watched them. The contrast of their skin tone and the colour of their hair so unimaginably beautiful. They two, exotic and beautiful creatures, something to be wondered at, so right together that Molly’s heart aches. Their eyes never leaving each other: Matt’s smiling, sparkling, Sherlock’s heavy lidded. Hands on newly bared skin, pushed into tousled hair. 

Her breath had honest to God caught in her throat.

Then. 

Sherlock had said those words. And Molly didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Because she’d been right, this is what Sherlock had wanted all along. Yet he has the  _temerity_ to look irritated at her interruption. 

Molly wishes she could slap that expression right off his lovely face.

There’s a moment, just a split second, where she thinks she won’t take Matt’s hand, that she’ll back away and end this. But then she glances between them and reaches for it, refusing to give into the tears that threaten, calming herself, telling herself that this is no more than she’d expected and to throw it all away now in a fit of green-eyed romanticism would only make things worse.  

Squeezing her fingers almost imperceptibly, Matt offers his reassurance and pulls her gently into his lap. It’s always been easy with him. Even back in the days when they were careless with their hearts and bodies, when every experience was a new one, she had always been able to take a leap of fate and trust him to take care of her. He’d loved her, once. And,  _oh_ , how she’d wished that she could have returned it. Everything would have been so much simpler.  

The inconvenient truth, however, is that she’s only ever chosen to love the ones who can’t love her back.

“Molly,” Matt says again, smoothing the hair away from her face, tenderly mouthing her neck, the tops of her breasts, and she feels the swell in her throat ease. She can do this, she knows she can, because it’s Matt and he would never hurt her, and because it’s Sherlock who she loves with the fire of a thousand suns. 

When Matt brushes his lips against hers she translates it into a kiss. It’s good. Effortless. Warmth, generosity, is transmitted through lips and hands. 

Her breathing eases and her limbs feel looser. A spike of shameless arousal takes her by surprise. This thought: the tongue in her mouth was only a few moments before the tongue in Sherlock’s mouth, she can smell his aftershave – mingled with Matt’s own – on his skin. He holds the back of her head as they kiss. It’s possessive, passionate. His erection is hard against her backside, and she finds herself growing wetter at the thought of what they’re about to do. She wants to touch herself, wondering if she should ask his permission first. (And what exactly is the etiquette when you’re being felt up by your old Dom while your new Dom watches?) That soon becoming irrelevant anyway as Matt grabs her hair, pulls her head back, his lips go to that spot behind her ear – the one that he’s always known was there, and that Sherlock has only recently found. His hand slides up her leg, under her dress, parting her, insinuating himself into her slick cunt. “No need to ask if you’re enjoying this,” he whispers in her ear.

Sherlock—

He’s watching them with effected interest. His hand is in his own lap, touching. Colour high on his cheeks as he worries at his plump bottom lip. There’s a look in those iridescent eyes, a rapaciousness that she’s never seen before: it would frighten her were she to see it on any other face, but on his it’s breathtakingly beautiful, made all the more so by the fact that the troubled something that’s been writ large across it for so long has smoothed out into an almost innocence that makes him look impossibly young.  

Her heart almost stops beating when Matt withdraws his fingers, slick with her arousal, and pushes them into Sherlock’s mouth, his eyelashes fluttering as he licks them clean.  No longer willing to be a mere spectator he reaches for her, bares her breast and takes it into his mouth. 

She moans his name, and lets herself be overcome by both men taking what they want from her.


	9. Three: Part II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All Part I (Chapter 8) warnings still apply.

It shouldn’t be so erotic, but it is. The rational part of Sherlock’s mind – the greater part – can only see that it’s his Molly, his beautiful, treasured Molly, her soft mouth open, her breasts heaving with a sharp intake of breath, warm and wanting in the arms of another man.

Yet.

The libidinous surge within compels him to watch them take this pleasure from each other, overwhelming his desire to assert his prior claim to her breathy sighs and the delicate lips that have parted so prettily, so invitingly, under someone else’s attentions. 

Want is braided with hunger, one that Matt tries to feed by letting him taste her on his fingers — taste both of them. It’s delicious. Divine. But it’s not enough.

His pulse beats strongly in his temples as he reaches out, his arm stretching across Matt to unzip her dress, ease it and her bra from her shoulders so that he can see her pale flesh spilling out over black silk. 

“Sherlock,” she moans as he latches onto her breast, the lace that covers it rough against his tongue. Trembling now, a rosy hue blooms over her chest. Under his attentions the tip of her breast grows harder. Greedily, he sucks. Molly’s fingers tangle in his hair.

The needy sounds she makes are taken into Matt’s mouth, and a covetous desire draws Sherlock there too. All three kiss, the men each taking turns with Molly’s mouth, then each other.

Light headed, dizzy with want, he forces a hand between her legs and suddenly there's one on his straining cock too. Hands are on his wrist, in his hair. Kisses are pressed to his neck and face.

Matt squeezes him, hard, and Sherlock just can’t take it anymore. “Molly, take your clothes off. All of them.”

“Oh God,” she sighs.

She’s shaking when she stands, and her fingers fumble with the zipper of her dress.

“Wait,” Matt instructs, easing himself up beside her. “I have a better idea.”

Molly stands very still. Her fathomless brown eyes, inscrutable in that moment, seem to search his soul. A longing to hold her, to beg for her heart to want his washes over him. For a fleeting, perfect instant, he’s certain that he sees that same longing in her eyes too. 

Matt’s hands on her body end it. 

Molly shutters herself behind closed eyes as his lips fall to the side of her neck, his hands working the zip, her dress falling to the floor. A large hand, flat against her skin, drags between her shoulder blades and unhooks her bra, tossing it to one side, then Matt kneels and her ankles are lifted, one by one, so that the dress and her heels can be discarded too.

Sherlock is adrift, lost in confused arousal at the sight of another man’s hands roaming over Molly’s naked breasts, between her legs.

Both of her wrists are taken in one of Matt’s hands, the other he places on her shoulder and pushes her gently onto her knees between Sherlock’s legs. Her long hair, pulled to one side, fans out over his lap in a gossamer web. Then Matt kneels too, reaching over her to open Sherlock’s trousers. 

Restraining her, Matt whispers in her ear, “Suck.”

Those huge amber flecked eyes are on him again, and for a second he forgets to breathe.

Matt twists her wrists up so that they are between her shoulders, using them as leverage to push her down on to Sherlock’s cock.

The first sweep of her tongue — so warm, so soft — causes a pulse of arousal to flare hotly throughout his entire body. Gently, she takes him onto her flattened tongue, deeper, tighter, until she’s finally swallowing around the pulsating tip.  _This_. This is what he’s wanted. To feel her on him, surrounding him, his vulnerable flesh between her lips as she so benevolently bestows herself upon him.

Molly makes a small sound of contentment in the back of her throat when Sherlock pushes his fingers into her silken hair, and he fancies that she must feel his heart beating in the places where his skin makes contact with hers. 

Matt still behind her, kisses his way down her back, his free hand gliding around her body, cupping and kneading her breast. Over the expanse of her perfect English rose skin, the two men’s eyes find each other. Matt watches Sherlock push deeper into Molly’s mouth. “I can’t wait any longer, Sherlock. I have to fuck you.”

Molly’s tongue stills and she lets him slip from her mouth. Her face presses to his stomach. Her breathing not quite anxious, but not quite steady either. 

The sound of it makes Sherlock’s throat feel tight.

Matt’s pulls her back against his shoulder, and drops a small kiss to her head. “Stay where you are for a little while and just watch, my little voyeur.” 

With an easy grace, Matt stands and takes Sherlock’s hand. It’s almost…almost as though Sherlock is outside of his body, floating: the kiss to his lips, the hands removing his clothes, Molly seeing him undressed and unravelled —   _all of it_ — he just lets it happen. He’s not hyperventilating, not yet, not exactly but his breath is quick, dizzying. Matt’s hands are everywhere, plucking at buttons, pushing his shirt aside, pulling his trousers down. His cock springs free and he’s so very aware of the disparity in their conditions: he and Molly are now naked, Matt still fully dressed. It feels indecent. Thrilling. The hands on Sherlock’s hips stroke up his torso, one fingernail – like a knife edge – scratching roughly at his nipple until it is hard and aching. Matt bows his head to bite at it, and Sherlock cries out with pleasure. There’s a hand on his shaft, stroking, one on the back of his neck controlling the depth of their kiss. 

 

 

 

A contrivance for her benefit: Sherlock’s alabaster skin, bared, held to Matt’s clothed body, hinting at an inequity of power. She and Sherlock made similarly low by their nudity. 

The aesthetic is really quite beautiful.

The sight of Matt’s hand on Sherlock’s genitals makes her own pulsate in sympathy. For what feels to Molly like an eternity they touch and tease each other, splayed fingers roaming over chests and backs, soft lips on necks and shoulders. Being handled this way suits Sherlock, his usual sharp edges are made softer. He’s more malleable, yielding. 

As Matt mouths along his jaw, Sherlock looks at her from beneath his long black lashes. He can’t seem to take his eyes off of her. 

It’s unbearably sexy. 

Molly finds herself on hands and knees, crawling to him. On every other occasion that she’s knelt at Sherlock’s feet it’s ended with his cock in her mouth, but this time she daren’t presume. Instead she strokes up his legs, kisses his thighs. His fingers card through her hair causing a prickling sensation to creep down her spine. They tighten, “Touch me,” he says.

Matt takes her hand and urges it between Sherlock’s legs. At the same time he opens his trousers and takes himself out, wrapping his long fingers around both their cocks and draws his thumb over their tightly squeezed, crimson heads. 

Above her, demanding, needy noises are made.

Small kisses, light, teasing, are dropped on Sherlock’s hip, with her thumb she presses to his anus. There’s a moan, long and deep, pushed all the way from the bottom of his diaphragm. Beneath her hands she feels his legs shake.

Beaded precome wells from both their slits and Molly licks over the heads, gathers it onto her tongue, looking up at them. 

Matt pulls himself away to hastily cast his clothes aside. “Keep sucking him.”

Her lips slide down Sherlock’s shaft, up again: she circles her tongue around the glans, lightly sucking then starting again. On the second up stroke she lets him slip out so that she can suck at the root, teasing his testicles. Quietly he says her name, both his hands on her head.

It’s then that she feels the heat of another body behind her. Matt takes her hair in his fist pulling her gently back and hands her a condom. “Let’s see if you remember what I taught you.”

 

 

 

 _This is it,_  Sherlock realises. The point of no return. For the first time since (heroin, cocaine) his time away from London, he’s going to spread his legs for someone he barely knows.

And he can’t stop it. Can’t stop himself. He’s horrified when he finally recognises how much he wants it. How much he’s missed this. The thrill of new, dangerous. The excitement that comes with an anonymous fuck. 

Molly, though. He can’t reconcile what he feels for her with what he feels right this second. A better man would know the rights and wrongs of this, but he’s not a better man, he’s an amoral addict who never could recognise the line that’s so clearly defined for everyone else. Not that it matters anyway, because her delicate lips are rolling a rubber down his cock, and Matt, undressed now, comes to stand behind them, fisting his own cock against Sherlock’s arse. 

At his feet, Molly is watching him again, her features oddly circumspect. Something undefinable in her intense stare. 

“I’m here,” she says so softly that only they two can hear it. 

Love, stinging, sharp, surges inside of him for her, quieted (pushed away) by Matt’s kisses on his nape, his hand on his back, bending him over the bed, pliant, Sherlock three sheets to the wind with lust. He’s panting with the brazen thrill of it all. He loves this, being manhandled. 

Open, exposed, his arse sticking up in the air, presenting, like an animal in heat. He keens a shameful noise when Matt sticks a finger into his mouth. He doesn’t need to be told what’s expected of a greedy little tart. On instinct, Sherlock sucks it, can’t get enough of it. 

Matt’s voice is hushed, awed. “Jesus. You are gagging for it, aren’t you?”

Something wet, slippery – a lubed finger – penetrates Sherlock’s hole with arousing discomfort, both his orifices violated at once. His breath catches and his stomach flips. It’s too much, too much.. “Molly,” he moans around the finger hooked into his mouth and tries not to think about what he’s allowing,  _wanting_ , desperate to be grounded by her touch, to know that she’s still able to look at him despite his humiliation, his weakness. 

“I’m still here.” Her palms, cool on his heated skin, stroke his hair, and wipe away the beaded perspiration from his brow. She does it so sweetly, and it makes him so incredibly grateful to her that he feels a sharp aching pang of ludicrous affection coursing through his veins, dissipating from his body through the tips of his toes and fingers.

His hands pull and grab at her and Molly sees at last that he wants her. She climbs onto the bed and lies back, her thighs either side of his head, opening herself, giving her body to him. 

He buries his face in her sweet cunt, succulent as a ripe peach. Salt. Musk. The smell of their sex from earlier, in the limousine. Her thighs are sticky. They quiver every time his lips close around her clit, shake when he sucks it between his teeth. Without making a conscious decision to do so, his tongue fucks her with the same rhythm as Matt’s fingers fuck his arse.

Two fingers. Now three, stroking deeper each time they delve into his dilating hole.

He’s almost stretched enough to take Matt’s cock. Almost. 

Molly’s hands reach down: Sherlock grasps them in his, fingers intertwined. He feels anchored by it, safer somehow just because she is there. They are just them again.  Inexplicably, shockingly, tears begin to fall. 

Her power to do this to him — leave him bloodied, raw — it shakes him, and he prays that she doesn’t see even as he breaks apart before her. 

Somehow she knows, she knows.. because her fingers hold him so tightly that they leave crescent shaped wounds in their wake. When he looks up, her expression is full of kindness, and Sherlock has to lock himself away behind closed lids because he can’t do this and look at her or he’ll be consumed. 

So he hides his face in the cradle of her thighs, and the new position forces his tongue deeper into her body. It’s hard to breath. He doesn’t care. His nostrils are filled with the scent of her. Lack of oxygen makes him light headed, his ears ring from it. His mouth is flooded with a gush of hot salt, his face wet with her. He could die there, drown in Molly’s cunt and still be grateful for her giving this to him. 

Four fingers, stretching, scissoring that hot, smooth as silk passage, bring his attention back to his own body. 

Matt’s other hand had held his hip, but now he runs a finger up the underside of Sherlock’s shaft, held back by the edge of the mattress, trapped, pointing down at the floor in a hard pulsating line. It feels like a current is running through that finger, every hair on his body stands on end.

He cries out against the seam of Molly’s cunt, and she gasps —  _huh huh huh —_ her belly stiffening, spasming in climax.

She holds him tighter, murmuring unintelligible words.

“You two,” Matt says in wonder, his fingers still searching. “You’re so beautiful together. I think I could come just from watching you.”

Molly tries to pull Sherlock’s face up into a kiss, but his arms, trembling, won’t co-operate, so instead she moves down the bed, positions herself beneath him so that she can have his mouth, and wraps her arms around him. 

Sherlock’s already tight chest clenches. Flushed cheeks, her eyes bright, sparkling, indented pink marks where she has bitten at her lip, her body glows in the aftermath of her orgasm. His breath is taken away by how lovely she is. And then she smiles at him, and he has to close his eyes again to shield himself from her.

All the while Matt keeps up his exploration of Sherlock’s most intimate parts. There are soft kisses on Sherlock’s shoulder and back, a skilful hand between his legs, rolling and pulling his balls. The searching finger has angled upwards and finds its target at last, rubbing the small gland mercilessly until Sherlock feels his legs begin to give out.

“Please,” he begs, his mouth on Molly’s.  “Please. Now.”

A gentle arm grips Sherlock’s waist, helping him to kneel up onto the bed, he comes to rest on all fours, Matt settling behind him, Molly’s legs falling open to accommodate his thighs. 

Foil is ripped open and a cold, viscose liquid is poured over the crack of Sherlock’s backside, dripped into his hole. At his back, Matt is slicking up his own sheathed prick with gloriously wet, pornographic sounds.

“I—” Molly says to Sherlock, nuzzling into his face she’s unable to form words. Her eyes though, her eyes are tender and she doesn’t close them when her soft lips touch his.

They are still locked in that kiss when Matt mounts Sherlock, making a gratified sound midway between a gasp and a groan as he presses into his arsehole. “ _Fuuuuuuuck…_  So fucking tight. Jesus. When was the last time someone had this gorgeous arse of yours?”

He’s barely an inch in, can’t be anymore, but the burn,  _Oh God_ , the burn is exquisite. Beneath him, Molly offers her breast to his mouth, and he suckles at it gratefully while she slips a hand between her legs.

Those twin sensations – a tit on his tongue, a cock in his arse – have his mind floating free again, unable to process so many sensory experiences at once. Everything colours and dims. The entire world becoming hazy at the edges.

Molly’s free hand holds his head to her breast, and he moans around it, pressing the stiff tip to the roof of his mouth. 

In the mirror he catches sight of himself being slowly fucked, back arched, pushing onto Matt’s cock like a cheap whore, Molly’s hands threaded in his hair, moaning with the pleasure she’s taking from him. He bites down, watching her throw her head back in a wordless scream. 

His cock is throbbing now, pulsating, so hard that it’s painful. Matt drives in another inch or so, and then Sherlock feels a hand snake between his legs, fondling him. There’s a sharp pull, a pinch on his balls that ignites fireworks behind Sherlock’s closed eyelids. He whimpers against Molly’s tit.

“You’re getting off on this.” Matt growls, running his hands over the swell of Sherlock’s backside. “Being bent over and filled with cock.”

Sherlock makes a strangled, ingratiating little sound that’s taken as encouragement to stretch him wider, fill him deeper. 

Matt’s slick hand alternates between stroking Sherlock’s cock and pinching his aching flesh, marking each benevolently bestowed gift of pleasure/pain with further intrusion into Sherlock’s body. Hot, tight friction, that lovely cock taking him, careful hands keeping him there on the precipice, refusing to let him fall without permission. 

Molly moans, her hand moving ever faster. “Sherlock,” she breathes, over and over. Her sounds are matched breath for breath by Matt as he bottoms out, his balls slapping lewdly against Sherlock’s arse, he pants, groans, words of gratitude and exultation spilling from his lips. Molly takes Sherlock’s prick in her hand and guides him inside of her. She cries out, her body arching as Sherlock fucks Molly, and Matt fucks them both.

His entire world has narrowed down to the points of contact that Molly and Matt share with his skin. Her mouth on his, her cunt surrounding his cock, tight muscles pulling, one hand on his neck, the other plucking at her own nipple. Matt’s cock, sliding, stretching, the tip brushing with torturous precision that glorious place so deep inside of him, his fingers caressing, pinching roughly at Sherlock’s bollocks as it clenches and pulls up closer to his body. 

Molly beneath him, a sublimely feminine expanse of supple skin and delicate breasts, lifts her hips, pushing him further inside of her than he’s ever been. The heat of her innermost place is matched only by that of her tongue in his mouth. They’ve never fucked with a barrier between them before, and strangely he finds it makes him more aware of his cock and the way she fits around him. There’s more friction with every stroke, but that’s not the whole of it: fucking her this way feels more  _elicit_. 

She’s touching his face, pulling at his hair, inclining his jaw so that she can bite at his earlobe, lick at his neck. She’s drenched between her legs: Sherlock feels her dripping onto his balls and the base of his cock. 

Molly cradles his head against her shoulder, “I’m close,” her voice so desperate it makes him buck his hips, and the cock in his arse almost slips out. Doesn’t matter he can’t hold himself back any longer anyway. 

He thrusts into her as Matt thrust into him, and a strangled sob falls from her lips. She comes. The increase in pressure around his cock caused by her orgasm is exactly what he needs. Sherlock tenses, jerks, and a flood of hot semen gushes out of him. The body wrapped around him, the thick cock inside his arse, they milk a shattering orgasm from him, one that Sherlock shudders and shakes through unable to tell whether what he feels is agony or ecstasy. It drowns him in a sea of endorphins that make him loose limbed and satiated in a way he hasn’t been since the bad-good old days. From behind Matt ruts into him, hard and fast, and there’s a litany of bitten off obscenities and vulgar words followed by the startled cry of a man surprised by the strength of his own climax, then more words – one voice soft, the other strong – telling him how amazing he is, how well he’s done.

There are hands on him – turning him over, wiping him clean – mouths on his own, breath shared with his. Sherlock keeps his eyes closed, he doesn’t want to see, doesn’t want to come back to reality:  _not yet, not yet…_

But already, something is intruding, a thought that fights to form though he pushes it away, one telling him that not only has he done something unforgivable, but that Molly,  _sweet gentle Molly Hooper,_  a woman he had once trusted with his life, has too.

Not even the blessed sanctuary of her mouth claiming his can make it go away. 

 

~~~~~~~~~~

_What now?_

The post-coital chemicals are fading fast, leaving Molly hungover and wrung out. Silent, frozen, she stares at herself in the en-suite’s mirror, heart thumping uncomfortably.

It isn’t supposed to be like this. She’s given Sherlock exactly what he wanted. Even if it didn’t play out as she’d expected, she’d still proved that he could have those things she’s not able to give, that she could be part of them too.

Yet it doesn’t feel like that. It feels like she’s made yet another in an ever increasing number of terrible mistakes, every one of them to do with Sherlock. 

Almost worse still is the sudden uncomfortable doubt that she isn’t the only one out of her depth. Sherlock had looked lost at times. Horribly vulnerable in that way he sometimes did. Like the night years ago, when he’d come to her at her lab, asking for her help—

Her stomach churns.

_Oh God._

Molly hurls open the bathroom door and stands on the threshold.  _How long has she been in there? Five, maybe ten minutes?_

Matt stands by a curtained window staring out over London, just a sheet wrapped around his waist. 

But Sherlock isn’t there. 

She knew he wouldn’t be.

“What is it? What’s wrong?” Matt is halfway across the room in just a few steps.

Molly ignores him. Instead she grabs her shoes and bag. “Where did he go?”

“For a cigarette—  _What?_  What is it?”

 _Shit. Shit. Fuck._  She feels the bold drain from her face. “When?”

“As soon as you went into the bathroom. Molly? Can you please tell me what’s going on? You’re starting to scare me.”

There will be time for explanations later, she decides. Talking isn’t her priority right now. Sherlock is. So she pulls herself together and hurries out into the hallway, only vaguely aware that Matt has followed her, calling her name.

Molly just about runs for the back stairs, no time to wait for the lift, barrelling through the emergency doors when Matt catches her arm.

She makes a frustrated grunt and tries to shake free.

Matt doesn’t let go. “ _Molly_ ,” he says sternly.

“I have to—”

“—No you don’t,” he cuts her short. “The only thing you have to do is tell me what’s happened and let me help you.”

This won’t be news to Matt, still, she hesitates. “Sherlock— he’s a —  _was_  — a user.”

“And something makes you think—?” 

How can she explain it when she barely understands it herself? Molly can’t tell him about those nights – first after the Adler woman, then after Moriarty. Or even —  _Jesus_  — the bender he’d gone on after Mary’s death. It wasn’t always cocaine — sometimes it was something worse.  _Far worse_. Sherlock needing a smoke never meant anything good. 

“The cigarette. It’s one of his tells.”

“For?”

“A danger night.”

“ _Shit_.” Matt runs a hand through his hair. “Okay. Look, he took off ten minutes ago. You won’t catch him. Come back inside so that I can get dressed and we’ll figure out what to do. Alright?” 

Molly wrestles with the compulsion she feels to run after Sherlock anyway, but she knows Matt is right, he’s long gone by now. And  _fuck_ , how do you even find Sherlock Holmes in London if he doesn’t want to be found?

Somewhere down the hall a door opens, a pretty redhead peeking out through the crack. They’ve made a commotion, and clubs like this don’t take very kindly to that. Security will probably be called if they don’t take this discussion somewhere private. 

“Alright,” she says, resigned.

Matt puts his arm around her shoulder and leads her back to their room. “Try not to worry. It might not be what you think.”

He’s well meaning, but he’s wrong. For the first time in a very long time, she knows with certainty that it’s exactly what she thinks it is. 

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Across the street a shade of shadow stands in a doorway, sheltering just beyond the pooled light of a street lamp. Only the amber tip of a lit cigarette betraying him in the dark of midnight London as he watches, waits. 

On the third floor window of a Georgian mansion the silhouette of a man draped in just a sheet walks further into the bedroom to places Sherlock can’t see.

The light stays on.

Minutes pass, marked by the ashy remnant of a Dunhill Red. He gives Molly the length of that cigarette, just one, then goes quickly along the street and into the dark night. 


End file.
